


Unexpected

by stormklinge



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Damien is experiencing weird symptoms of falling in love but doesn't know what it is, Falling In Love, M/M, Prejudice against Witchers and Vampires, Regis playing romantic consultant, Romance, Self-indulgent sappy bullshit from yours truly, Slow Burn, kinda slow burn, or rather my take on the two of these, vampire culture and biology, witcher biology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-08 22:16:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11091033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormklinge/pseuds/stormklinge
Summary: Damien was less than enthused when Her Grace insisted on bringing in a witcher to help him with his investigation into the Beast of Beauclair murders; he certainly wasn't expecting said witcher to be a strangely handsome man that he couldn't read for the life of him.





	1. Fate

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY, so I haven't published a fanfiction before, so this first chapter is kinda some basic as hell preamble to get me into the swing of things. SO, pardon me if the first chapter isn't too great, hopefully it'll pick up from here, no?

When the Grand Duchess had informed Damien that someone would be helping him on the case of the Beast of Beauclair, needless to say, he was less than thrilled; however, it was the decision of the Duchy that he would need help to make any progress, and he would not argue with Her Grace’s decisions.

However, when he was informed that the ‘help’ they were calling upon was from beyond Beauclair, needless to say, he was less than pleased; and, it took every fibre of his being to keep his mouth shut when the Duchess mentioned that she had called upon a witcher, of all things.

Damien had never encountered a witcher before. Creatures and monsters that roamed throughout Beauclair did not require such inhuman measures to control - no, just a knight-errant, or, perhaps, a posse of knights. Men who had sworn themselves to the Heron and taken vows to protect the sanctity of the duchy and humanity, sworn themselves to preserve what was good and right in the face of the dark and the wrong.

Damien knew of witchers from storybooks, and they were everything the knights of Beauclair were not; mutant heathens, bodies altered through disturbing rituals, wielding primordial magic and bearing the fiendish eyes of so many of the creatures they were expected to destroy - emotionless and stoic as a guard-golem, and as beastly and dangerous in nature as a spriggan or basilisk.

Damien could not fathom why the Duchess expected that bringing in one monster to fight another could work, but he had made his vows and sworn his loyalty - the word of the duchy would always prevail, above all else. And, as a result, Damien would be stuck working alongside the lizard-blooded killer that was to be his ‘assistance’.

The witcher called himself Geralt ‘of Rivia’, for he had no last name, apparently abandoned at the gates of their hideout in the mountains in the North; he befit the description that all of Damien’s researched tomes and texts betrayed of these mutants - cat eyes that could see in the dark, and the cold, hardened demeanor of a killer, someone that had their humanity cut with mutagens from beasts from the Conjunction, their emotions washed away by blasphemous rituals conducted by ones of their own kind.

Damien had not been expecting the witcher to have such snow-white hair, however. In fact, Geralt was snow-white all over, his skin bearing the kind of pallor so many women in Beauclair strove for in spite of the hot Toussaint sun, sheltered beneath parasols and wide-rimmed hats. Geralt seemed unaffected by the sun, bearing no such protection upon their initial meeting, his attention on the case and not his own looks or vanity.

And, yet, Damien could not deny there was something strangely enthralling about Geralt’s appearance. His pale skin and hair, offset only by the darker tones of his armour and the gleaming honey-amber of his cat-like eyes, their slit pupils constricted to block out the sun as they looked over the case notes. Damien used their discussion of the murders to distract himself from the fact that, in all of his peculiar foreign and mutated ‘glory’, Geralt of Rivia was oddly beautiful in the strangest of ways.

Continuing to work alongside Geralt did not help to abate this strange and unexpected feeling. Fate had a cruel sense of humour, indeed.

It did not help that Geralt was really, really good with his arsenal. Damien would never admit it, but he did have a brief moment to observe the Tournament just as Geralt was demonstrating his skills at sharpshooting, and swinging a sword from horseback - more cruel fate, his timing.

Geralt displayed incredible precision with a crossbow, seemingly unaffected by the jostling of his horse as it sped along the track - and with such a basic saddle, too - and his skill with a sword against the roadside dummies was equally impressive. Damien had a fondness for high combat skill, and seeing the witcher absolutely demolish the other Tournament competitors in each challenge was enough to get a small hum of approval from the Captain - to himself, of course.

Damien would never, never admit to re-attending to witness Geralt’s participation in the following events, and he would certainly never admit to being caught up in the applause as Geralt accepted his final prize and saluted the audience with a tip of his blade to the stands.

Fate took another cruel turn when the case began to escalate in its complexity, and he found himself working alongside the witcher to execute a peculiar farce to lure in the individuals that were purchasing wine that had been specifically reserved to the ducal table, with Geralt posing as the deliveryman. 

They had been waiting at the designated meeting spot; Geralt waiting by the cart horses, and Damien crouched in the shadows in wait, alongside a small platoon of ducal guardsmen, waiting for their opportunity to strike.

One of the ruffians - presumably the leader, purely by the way the others cowed to his movements and gestures - had given Geralt a long look-over, before turning back to his own men, who were already in motion. Damien had taken the opportunity to strike - it was not ideal, he sacrificed any element of surprise they may have ever had, a move that lost them their clear upper hand, but somehow the thought of Geralt being in trouble made Damien downright furious.

Fighting alongside Geralt as he moved like lightning, each strike deadly and true, each move precise, they dispatched the wine-thieves with relative ease, before regrouping to consider their losses and next move. Damien cursed his own tongue as he fell victim to his own compulsions to tell the witcher how he felt - something even he was struggling to understand.

“I was wrong about you, witcher.”

It was perhaps the best phrasing one could make for such a confusing feeling, but Damien still felt ridiculous saying such a thing here; they were still spattered with blood, and Geralt’s cat eyes looked positively mad in the night darkness, his pupils dilated and the amber rings ever-so-slightly iridescent.

Geralt regarded him for a brief moment, sheathing his blade on his back, “Well, had no reason to trust me,” he paused briefly, his eyes never straying from Damien’s, “And, I didn’t do much to change that.”

Upon their initial meeting and the earliest points of working together, Damien may have found Geralt’s monosyllabic turn of phrase irritating; now, somehow, things felt different. He stifled the strange and preposterous feeling by curbing their discourse as such; “True. You are not the most enduring of men.”

Judging by the ever-so-slight quirk of Geralt’s lip, he saw right through Damien’s words, sensed there was some other intent behind them. Damien cursed that smug look and attempted to salvage the situation, maintain at least some of his professionalism.

“At any rate,” he spoke sternly, levelly, “I see the effort you put forth. And, I appreciate it.”

Geralt gave him a small nod, and Damien breathed a sigh of relief that he did not get that smug little smirk again. Turning to make his way over to the one remaining bandit, the Captain mentioned that it was time to take matters up with the Duchess who waited nearby.

It was Damien’s turn to smirk smugly as Geralt almost floundered over the fact that Her Grace was already here and waiting for them, trying to staunch the strange feeling in his gut at the sound of the witcher becoming flustered for the first time since they met.

By the Heron, fate has a cruel sense of humour.


	2. Heartbeats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAH, thank you so much for all the kudos and bookmarks and comments. I wasn't expecting anyone to enjoy my clumsy writing, but I'm so glad people are! <3
> 
> So, in this chapter, I'm beginning to add in some more things about Damien's bizarre love of witcher biology (he loves Geralt's eyes, who wouldn't). Still kind of in the preamble stage, but we're beginning to snowball from here. :D

Interrogating the prisoner, the one remaining bandit among the band of wine-thieves, had not gone the way that Damien had expected it to - and, once again, this unexpected turn was all due to the witcher.

Damien watched as Her Grace circled the prisoner, and quirked an eyebrow as she referred to the bandit as ‘bait for luring the beast’; Geralt had stalked forward, regarding the prisoner with those eyes, those eyes that were definitely iridescent, now that Damien had a good opportunity to look without Geralt noticing his attention. Geralt looked predatory and wolf-like, and the prisoner knelt at Damien’s feet picked up on this, noticeably tensing as the witcher loomed over him like some sort of carnivore.

“Sure can,” Geralt spoke darkly, in his usual short manner, “Fresh out.”

Damien watched as the witcher took over the ‘interrogation’; perhaps, if this was just one week ago, Damien would have regarded Geralt’s sudden involvement the interrogation, however requested by Her Grace, as an obnoxious and needless intrusion. Somehow, now, he found himself watching with intrigue as Geralt continued to stare unblinkingly down at the wine-thief, his air so much more menacing - almost consistent with Damien’s previous suspicions regarding the nature of witchers, but, strangely, not enough so as to be off-putting or unwelcome to the Captain as it may have been a mere week prior.

“Captain.”

The witcher’s voice caught his attention, and Damien looked up, locking eyes with Geralt, those honey-amber eyes burning into his in a way that had Damien feeling as if he were drowning in the blood-curdling gaze of a predator - yet, there it was again, that part of him that did not want to turn away, and did not want the bizarre exchange of eye-contact to end.

“Have your men find me a strong rope,” Geralt’s tone was low and grim, in a way that elicited a visible tremble from the prisoner, and an imperceptible shiver from Damien, “The kind that won’t snap when we hang this fellow from a tree.”

The prisoner was beginning to sweat already, “R-Rope?”

Damien was not sure how he felt about the fact that his hands were becoming as clammy as the prisoner’s forehead beneath his gauntlets, and that this fact was equally attributable to the same witcher that was eliciting terror from the bandit. 

“Live bait,” Geralt continued - circling like a solitary wolf closing in on a wounded deer, “Great for monsters. Provided they catch the scent of its blood. But, I’ll see to that.”

Damien watched Geralt move about their prisoner, utterly enthralled. Geralt was a natural, upholding Her Grace’s sudden involvement of him in the interrogation flawlessly, playing on the bandit’s fear perfectly and drawing the man into a deeper and deeper state of fear. Damien could clearly see the bandit’s constitution breaking down as he continued to shake and tremble beneath Geralt’s gaze, his cat-like eyes boring deep into the frightened stare of the prisoner, unblinking and intimidating and so, so eerily inhuman.

Beautifully inhuman; Damien could not pull his focus away from Geralt’s gaze proper, his eyes continually flicking back to those deep golden wells as the slit pupil constricted and dilated with surprising responsiveness to its oscillation as Geralt moved in and out of the light of the nearby burning torches.

“What?” The bandit’s shouting almost had Damien jumping, his attention ripped away from Geralt’s hypnotising eyes and back to the pathetic wine-thief kneeling at their feet, “No! Crikey, no - don’t let him!”

Geralt was immediately at the bandit’s front, his steps almost utterly silent; the bandit jumped, clearly having lost track of Geralt’s presence after the witcher had stalked behind him.

“Stop screaming,” the witcher snarled, turning his gaze toward the distant and darkened hillside as if to enunciate his ‘intended’ use for the bandit, “Save your strength. Got a long night ahead of you.”

The bandit was hysterical; the howling bark of something in the distance was the final thing that broke him down, and Damien could not help but quirk an eyebrow at the strange timing of the sound, “No! Don’t let him, I’ll talk!”

Geralt continued the interrogation, finally asking the questions Her Grace and Damien had intended to gain answers to; where the bandits were taking the wine barrels and who hired them to steal the wine. The bandit claimed ignorance at first, claiming to be a mere tool to a larger ploy, his leader laying dead nearby with the answers to their questions dead with him. Geralt continued to press, his gaze intense, and his presence even more so, and the bandit eventually responded to the pressure.

“The first barrel went to a warehouse at the port,” the bandit admitted finally, his tone defeated, “But, where this one was bound, I don’t know. I speak true, you must believe me.”

Geralt allowed the bandit’s words to sit for a brief moment, before speaking once more, “Who hired you?”

The bandit’s gaze was locked on the ground before him, “He’ll kill me.”

“Ought to be worried about me, right now,” the witcher’s threat elicited a small jolt of terror from the bandit, “Who is he?”

Damien finally spoke up; his jaw had been locked tight and his mouth had begun to feel dryer than a glass of well-aged Toussaint red, and he suddenly felt the undeniable urge to say something - anything - to cut through the feeling, and try and clear his throat and his mind, “Go on, man. Spit it out.”

Geralt had since knelt beside the bandit, crouched at eye level; Damien’s words had the witcher turning his attention toward the Captain, and Damien’s breath hitched at the sight for reasons he did not quite understand - Geralt, down on his knees, and those thrice-damned golden eyes gazing up at him, pupils still shifting beneath the continually changing playing of light across Geralt’s pale features.

Damien set his jaw, drawing on all of his prior professional experience to tamp down his strange feelings and stranger response, thanking every single vow by name internally when Geralt turned his attention back to their prisoner.

The prisoner was finally caving; he explained that the man they were serving was referred to as ‘the Cintrian’, according to his former leader; a small grain of information, but a grain better than none at all.

Geralt watched the bandit for a long moment more, obviously trying to decipher whether or not he had anything more to say, or whether the bandit would display any sort of indication that he was lying.

After a long moment, Geralt turned back to Damien with that same carnivorous gaze that devoured Damien’s attention whole, and gave a short nod, moving to his feet.

“Take him away,” Her Grace spoke up, her authoritative voice cutting sharply through the night air, and catching Damien’s attention immediately - he had almost forgotten she was standing there, somehow, “Throw him in the dungeon, he shall await trial there.”

As one of Damien’s men dragged the bandit away from the scene, Damien and Geralt listened closely to Her Grace’s next instructions; Damien was to gather his men and seek out the Cintrian, whilst Her Grace and Geralt would await him at the guard post in the port. Geralt and Damien nodded in affirmation to her words, before making their way toward their horses.

The ride back to town found Geralt and Damien riding at one another’s side, Her Grace following closely behind, the remaining men bringing their horses into an even trot in a circle around her that completed at the Captain and the witcher; it was a fairly standard escort formation, but it worked undeniably well, and it allowed Damien and Geralt to speak out of Her Grace’s earshot.

 

Damien was immensely thankful for this, as a part of him wanted to speak to the witcher, and he had no idea how Her Grace would react to his sudden change in demeanor toward Geralt; she would not deride it, he knew that, but he did not particularly want his peculiar and hard-to-explain feelings being bared to prying questions from her.

“You handled that well,” Damien murmured, “The interrogation. Ever considered becoming a member of the guard? You would likely fit in very well.”

“Already got a trade,” Geralt responded shortly, but Damien could see a small and amused glint in Geralt’s eye, “Being a witcher is a full-time job. Don’t know if I’d fit into the life of a guard very well, anyway.”

Damien chuckled, trying to keep his demeanor at least slightly professional in spite of his strange driving desire to be familiar with the witcher, “Well, either way. You seemed to know exactly what to do to get answers out of our wine-thief.”

“It’s all in the heartbeats,” Geralt almost seemed to flourish slightly under Damien’s awkward praise, “Listening to them. Knowing when they’re starting to feel afraid.”

Damien quirked an eyebrow, “‘Listening to them’?”

“I can hear them. Heartbeats, I mean,” Geralt gave a small shrug, “One of the benefits of being a witcher. We have very good hearing. Heartbeats are very easy for us to hear. Especially when they speed up.”

Damien could not deny that both eyebrows were raised now, “You can really hear heartbeats? Without your head being pressed against a person’s chest?”

Geralt nodded, his mouth slightly tilted in a proud little smile.

“Impressive,” Damien smiled in return, “It must be a handy skill to have. I know that it would help on more than one occasion in my work. Anything that allowed me to know how another was feeling, particularly a prisoner like our wine-thief.”

Geralt nodded, “It helps in the witchering trade. Especially with monsters that have larger hearts, those are always easier to hear. A lot of monsters have hearts that beat faster when they’re hunting, too, so if you’re being stalked by a monster, it helps to have something to listen out for.”

Damien nodded, unable to deny how impressed he was. Previously, the thought of witchers being able to hear the sound of his heart beating, detecting something so intimate and internal, would have disturbed Damien to his very core, repulsed him at the thought.

Yet, now, he was giving into his stranger urges, and wanted to know more about witchers - more about Geralt.

“Sometimes I pick up on other things,” Geralt’s eyes peered at Damien sidelong, the witcher eyeing the Captain in his periphery, “Tonight I heard two rapid heartbeats during the interrogation. Had to focus on one, but the other was noticeable too.”

Damien stared at Geralt questioningly.

“Won’t deny it,” the witcher continued, unperturbed by Damien’s confused gaze, “Kind of wanted to keep listening to the other one. It was nice, strong, something exciting about it.”

Damien knew he had to be wrong, but it almost seemed like Geralt was being playful; that wry look in his eyes and the way he was continually glancing at Damien in the corner of his vision, his head tilted down toward his chest.

It was not until they broke formation, Geralt accompanying Her Grace to the guard post in the port, and Damien assembling his men to begin their search for the Cintrian, that Damien realised whose heartbeat the witcher had noticed during the interrogation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAH, GERALT'S ONTO YOU DAMIEN.  
> (I don't think he finds your attentions unwanted, Captain).


	3. Ambush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading and giving their kind reviews and kudos! You all give me life! <3
> 
> So, in this chapter we begin the non-canonical situations that contribute to the romantic plot afoot here (aka. excuses for me to have Geralt and Damien increasing their time and proximity to one another). Also, this chapter is leading into future circumstances with Geralt and Damien spending some good quality time with one another. We're begnning to snowball into the burn here, people. <3

“He’s late.”

 

Geralt does not react visibly to the Duchess’ words, his eyes remaining closed and his hands knitted together in his lap as he continues to breathe calmly, in a shallow meditative state. One or two of the bandits had struck a true blow to him, and meditation was the only viable option to bring about healing whilst being ready to defend the Duchess, should the need arise.

 

The Duchess’ incessant pacing was not making meditation easy, by any means, but he could already feel his superficial wounds beginning to heal, the pain ebbing away gradually, assisted by a small dose of Swallow he had downed on the ride to the guard post.

 

“Relax,” he murmured quietly, “He’ll come.”

 

The Duchess’ pacing came to a quick stop; without the constant clicking of heeled boots, Geralt could hear her heart thumping in her chest clearly, her tension so much more apparent than any amount of pacing could ever convey. Not to mention the scent of fear drifting off her, her frightened, anxious presence filling the room and Geralt’s senses, bringing his focus - constantly - back to her worrying.

 

“There’s something I’d like to know,” the Duchess snipped shortly, her tone caught between agitation and irritation, “How can you be so damned calm?”

 

Her voice was heaved out on a breathy manner that made Geralt acutely aware of the fact that her worry was quickly turning into annoyance at his composure; he took a small, imperceptible breath, and decided to curb her worries, try and bring her to some form of calm and collected, fitting of her role as the Duchess.

 

“Side effect of my mutations. We witchers rarely get the jitters.”

 

There was a long pause as the Duchess digested his answer. Her heartbeat had calmed somewhat - Geralt could still detect that it was pulsing too fast for somebody truly calm, but it was certainly calmer than before.

 

The Duchess drew in a shaky breath, “What if something has happened to him?”

 

Geralt grit his teeth, his fingers tightening in his lap; it was not ‘jittery’ in any way to entertain the possibility that something had happened to the Captain, and Geralt had been quietly mulling on the thought subconsciously for the better part of the last hour. The Captain was unusually late - something inconsistent with his utter devotion to the Duchy. Geralt had - admittedly - been quietly nursing his own worry for the Captain, with no amount of witcher mutations able to stifle realistic fear that something about a situation was off.

 

Nevertheless, the last thing he needed was his own worry exacerbating that of the already anxious Duchess.

 

He swallowed dryly, as subtly as he could, “Captain seems like a man who can take care of himself.”

 

It was not necessarily a lie; Damien was a capable Captain and warrior, Geralt had borne witness to that fact himself when pitted against the angry horde of wine-thieves earlier that night. However, he knew they were potentially dealing with the involvement of higher vampires besides Dettlaff, and that no number of ducal guardsmen could take down a higher vampire that could potentially want to kill the men Damien had assembled to track the Cintrian.

 

If the people involved with the Cintrian were already blackmailing a higher vampire, who could guarantee they were not in more direct contact with other vampires?

 

“Perhaps he can,” the Duchess sighed, “But, this Cintrian appears to be no common bandit.”

 

Geralt stiffened; another valid point. They had no idea how dangerous the Cintrian in his own capacity truly was. Even without the assistance of a higher vampire, the Cintrian could have forces that rivalled Damien’s, he may have amassed adequate man-power to take down Damien’s ducal guardsmen - superior tactics and formal training meant nothing in the face of overwhelming forces and the scrappy and bloodthirsty desperation of bandits.

 

“He managed to steal ducal wine from under my guardsmen’s noses,” the Duchess had resumed her irritable pacing, the clicking footfalls of her heeled boots merging with the staccato rhythm of her frightened heart, “We only learned of it through a fortunate coincidence - and it was he who specified the victims for the vampire. One must be exceptionally confident to blackmail such a monster.”

 

Geralt’s hands tightened even more within his gauntlets. These bandits did seem unusually coordinated - not the usual rough and clumsy numbers Geralt had faced in the past, swinging stolen and half-broken axes in their ‘borrowed’ armour sets, mottled together from a number of cheap and damaged sets. These bandits, this Cintrian, had a clear-cut agenda, they had clearly determined a route to achieve their goal, and they had sufficient numbers to spare an entire platoon of bandits for one wine trafficking.

 

“Sooner or later, everyone slips up,” the words escaped Geralt’s mouth as a means to try and get himself some form of reassurance as they were intended to calm the Duchess, his eyes sliding open and his gaze turning to fix upon the anxious woman before him, “Cintrian stole the Sangreal - that was his mistake.”

 

The Duchess was nervously wringing her hands, “Yet, if we had not happened upon the wine stain -”

 

A pounding knock on the guard post door had the Duchess jumping, and Geralt’s head snapping to face the source of the sound. Neither Duchess nor witcher made a move toward the door for a long moment - if it were Damien, surely he would open the door immediately, having access to all the guard posts in the duchy as the Captain of the guard.

 

“Please!” A desperate, yet unfamiliar voice, pleaded from the other side of the door, “The witcher! He needs to come quickly! Vampires!”

 

Geralt was up immediately, tearing open the door, and struggling to prevent the fall of the ducal guard that collapsed as the door ceased to support his injured weight. The Duchess was at his side, her expression terrified and her hands fluttering as she tried to gauge what - if anything - Geralt needed her to do to help the wounded guard.

 

Geralt helped the guard over to one of the chairs as quickly as he could without jostling any of the man’s wounds, “You mentioned vampires? Where are they? Were you with Damien?”

 

“Yes, I was one of the men he gathered to chase after the Cintrian,” the guard was holding his hand against his side, grimacing with every word he spoke, “We were attacked in the woods - near Fabricio’s winery. Hideous creatures. Damien sent me to retrieve you, they need your help!”

 

Geralt did not need any further instructions, already moving toward the door.

 

“Your Grace, the guards at the doors, will they be enough to ensure your safety?” He spoke as he checked and rechecked his gear, “Can anyone see to this guard’s wounds?”

 

The Duchess was trying to comfort the guard, who was continuing to wince as he breathed, his hand tightly clutched against his side; at his current angle, Geralt could see blood weeping from between the plates of his silver armour, unstaunched and slow - a wound that, unchecked, would eventually run the man’s veins dry.

 

“Yes,” the Duchess responded quickly, “Yes, of course. I will be fine. You must help Damien. Don’t waste anymore time, witcher!”

 

Geralt nodded in affirmation, nearly throwing the door off its hinges as he sprinted outside, his hands flying to the reins of Roach’s hackamore as soon as he was within arm’s reach.

 

⧫⧫⧫

 

Geralt spurred Roach into a hard and terrifyingly fast gallop, heading in the direction of Fabricio’s winery, and hoping that he would be able to pinpoint where Damien and his men were before any further casualties befell them.

 

The sounds of screaming and fighting, steel against flesh and claw, and the horrific squeal of a bruxa’s scream pierced the night air, and Geralt immediately snapped the reins and spurred Roach once more, the horse protesting loudly as they hurtled headlong toward the sounds of the nearing violent cacophony.

 

Geralt threw himself down from the saddle as soon as Roach had slowed enough for him to dismount without tumbling into the dust, his silver sword glinting in the moonlight as he unsheathed it, zeroing in his attention on an enormous, grey-haired fleder, its skinned-back jaws snapping and dripping with saliva as its attention fell upon Geralt.

 

The fleder’s claws were fast and vicious, but Geralt’s sword was wickedly sharp and wielded with deadly precision, the blade slicing through the fleder’s leg, before hack down through the back of its thick neck after it collapsed to its knees.

 

Geralt glanced around, eyes desperately searching for Damien; the ducal guardsmen had minimal losses, with only a few injured - still fighting - facing up against the swarm of thankfully lower vampires. Two more fleders and a bruxa remained - the guardsmen seemed out of their depth, managing to hold off the creatures, but not making any significant gains in the fight, seemingly at an impasse.

 

The witcher’s eyes land on Damien, who is taking on one of the fleder’s with a determined expression, his sword flashing as it moves in quick and practiced strikes, the coordination of a well-trained warrior and seasoned soldier blending into a deadly flurry of movement that is actually driving the enormous vampire backward, away from where the guardsmen are making their stand.

 

Geralt takes only the smallest moment to be impressed - really impressed - by Damien’s skill, before turning his attention to the bruxa. The female vampire, grotesque and gaunt all over, her eyes yellow-white and her mouth a gaping maw full of needle-like teeth - she has all her attention trained on Geralt before she moves to strike, her movements lightning fast and liquid as a predatory animal.

 

Geralt concentrates on blocking her strikes, moving to make his own when he has available openings; fighting bruxa is akin to a dance, with certain movements being harder for the gaunt female vampires to fend off; the fight is earnestly in Geralt’s favour, until the creature lunges backward, and sets her stance. Her chest almost seems to swell in size, her ribs shifting as if she’s drawing a lot of air into her lungs -

Oh no.

 

Oh, no.

 

Geralt barely has a chance to dodge slightly aside as the wall of the bruxa wail slams into him with all the force of a shaelmaar’s charge, sending him staggering backward, his ears ringing and his head pounding.

 

The bruxa moved to strike, seeing his brief stagger as an opening for attack; Geralt recalled all Vesemir’s training regarding alps and bruxae, and moved on the defensive, bringing his sword around in an upward arc, blocking the bruxa’s strike, before slicing to one side. Blood splattered the ground, and a - thankfully quieter - shriek penetrated the air as the vampiress crumpled to the ground, writhing in a pitiful bout of death throes.

 

Fleders were, luckily, slower and less elegant and agile than bruxae, and Geralt made short work of the two lumbering brutish vampires, fighting alongside Damien and his guardsmen as they had against the wine-thieves.

 

In the aftermath of the skirmish, Geralt stood before Damien, breathing long and deep to catch his breath; he exchanged a long look with the Captain, that eventually broke into a mutual smile of relief, as they both stood up straighter to survey the corpses of the vampires, ensuring that no guardsmen had fallen alongside the beasts.

 

Assured that none of their own had fallen victim in the battle, Geralt and Damien turned to one another once more.

 

“I’m glad you got my message,” Damien smiled, wiping dirt and sweat away from his brow and sheathing his sword at his hip.

 

Geralt nodded in affirmation, “Me too. Fight like this, could have ended a lot worse.”

 

Damien nodded, eyeing the nearest corpse - a fleder with tawny-brown fur and a massive and old battle scar across its snub muzzle, “My guardsman - is he okay? He was among the wounded, but I had to send someone and he was the farthest from the fighting. I saw an opening and I took it.”

 

Geralt could tell that Damien was panicking at his decision to send a wounded man on such a long and high-pressure trek to retrieve the witcher. He felt himself smiling at the Captain’s concern for his men, and nodded quickly.

 

“He’s fine,” he murmured, “He’s with the Duchess and the guards that were at the post when I left.”

 

Damien breathed a sigh of relief, “I would scold you for leaving the Duchess at the guard post, but I know you had no choice in the matter.” He rounded his comment off with a short chuckle, eyes scanning over his men to ensure no one had any injuries that demanded immediate attention.

 

“You’re the one who summoned me,” Geralt quirked an eyebrow and tilted the corner of his lip up in a small playful smirk, “Good thing you did too. Vampires are something I’m good at dealing with.”

 

Damien nodded slowly and sincerely, “I can attest to that, after that display. You weren’t lying when you said you had experience with these sorts of creatures.”

 

“Do you think they have any connection to our Cintrian?” Geralt asked, nudging the third fleder corpse with the toe of his boot, trying to ignore the persistent ringing in his ears, his head still spinning from the bruxa wail, “Seems like an odd coincidence, an entire pack of lesser vampires turning up while you look into a man blackmailing a higher vampire.”

 

Damien gave a short shrug, “All too true. It is something we must consider, I’m afraid. We may have to entertain the possibility for future attacks like these. I may have to sure up the skills of my men to ensure they know how to fend off vampires,” he paused briefly and turned his gaze to Geralt, “Thankfully, I have someone who can help me give them such skills.”

 

“Seems like their Captain has a few skills at fighting vampires that he hadn’t mentioned earlier, if I’m being honest,” Geralt smirked at Damien, “You held off that fleder nicely.”

 

Damien’s eyebrows both raised and he cleared his throat, “I was merely using skills from fighting less beastly opponents in the past. I am no veteran in duelling monsters, unlike you. I could not provide my men with all the skills they need to destroy vampires; you could.”

 

Geralt smiled and nodded, “I could give them some training. I’d be happy to. Especially if we’re dealing with men blackmailing a higher vampire, who may be able to call in forces like this on demand.”

 

Damien smiled once more at Geralt, and the witcher felt it difficult to resist smiling back, following the Captain as he made his way toward his horse, rounding up the remainder of his men with a quick command to ‘move out’.

 

Geralt brought Roach into a trot beside Damien’s mare, and the Captain set about explaining what they had managed to find out about their Cintrian prior to the vampire attack.

 

Geralt listened distantly, digesting the information almost absently as he knew that they would inevitably discuss it all again upon their return to the Duchess at the guard post. Geralt’s mind continually replayed the image of Damien fighting back the fleder, how his strikes had been equal parts nimble and strong, how he had been utterly unperturbed by the creature’s beastly and likely all-too-foreign appearance as he cut it back with his blade moving in elegant, whirling arcs.

 

Geralt bit the inside of his lip, considering the possibility that the odd feeling in his mind was not entirely attributable to the effects of a bruxa wail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt's feeling the love tonight. <3


	4. Mandragora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SORRY FOR THE BREAK - I had my final exams for the semester and a lot of work on my thesis! Anyway, this chapter is a little on the long side, but it's leading into something good, I promise! Geralt's beginning to wise up to his own feelings, oho.

Geralt sighed, leaning against the wall of one of the numerous villas, closing his eyes and settling in for a long wait for the Duchess’ arrival; his thoughts immediately travelled back to one of the many, many times he had waited for Yennefer to get prepared for a formal event, only to realise that her hair and makeup did not just look like that without any kind of preparation.

 

This plan felt a little strange to Geralt; attending a private party intended for eccentric and budding artists, all to track down a singer that Damien had identified as being associated with the Cintrian. 

 

It all seemed a little too convoluted to Geralt; but, alas, as he had learned from his prior incidences of meddling in the affairs of the mighty, these things often got ridiculously complicated, with seemingly irrelevant events and clues being linked by unrealistic associations that no one - no matter how good they were at tracking or investigating - would ever anticipate at a first, second or third glance.

 

Geralt hated formal events, but - thanks to the unwanted theft of a certain deceased new-money noble that he had given the night of a lifetime to - he had something slightly more accommodating; the ornate robe, procured from an unknown’s drying line, was much less restricting than any formal doublet, and allowed Geralt to move and breathe without any discomfort - or feeling too overdressed, as he had so many times in the Vizima courtroom under the scrutiny of the Emperor of Nilfgaard.

 

It seemed like an eternity spent sitting on the stairs, breathing quietly in the cool night air, before the sound of gentle footfalls caught his attention, drawing his gaze into the street before him.

 

“Well, well, well,” the Duchess spoke slowly, contemplatively, as she looked Geralt over, the nearby street torches bringing out the gold lining of her elegant gown, “A witcher in a robe; I last saw attire like this years ago, in Redania.”

 

Geralt began to contemplate whether he had allowed Vlodimir von Everec to pilfer this robe from a Redanian sympathiser without even realising it.

 

“Inappropriate for this evening?” He murmured, descending to the base of the stairs and quirking a brow at the Duchess, “Not a good fit?”

 

The Duchess chuckled quietly, more to herself than to Geralt, seemingly enjoying how out of place he was with the current fashion trends of Toussaint, “It’s a wonderful fit, but you’re sure to stand out. No one wears such things around here.”

 

Geralt recalled his walk to the meeting spot, recalled being set upon by bandits seeking his head for a bounty - he was a wanted man, as Damien had pointed out to him back at the guard post. He knew that standing out was surely an error in judgement after such an incident, but he knew that - now that the Duchess had arrived - they had to move as swiftly as possible to unearth the Cintrian from whatever burrow he had crawled to hide within.

 

No time to go trading out outfits simply because his choice was unusual.

 

The Duchess seemed to pick up on his internal mulling, and smiled at him, breaking him from his thoughts somewhat abruptly.

 

“Not at all bad,” her tone was reassuring, “Nothing like a budding artist, of course. Just one other detail,” She paused for a moment, as if in afterthought, before moving her hands to draw Geralt’s attention to an item in her hands, “Put it on.”

 

Geralt eyed the mask cradled in her hands - it’s warm and royal purple colour offset the white of the Duchess’ own mask, with a delicate pattern of gold filigree running around the edges, eyes and bridge of the nose. He accepted the mask and slipped it on, realising that it was constructed of delicate papier-mache, and could easily crumple beneath his sword-honed touch.

 

“All who attend the Mandragora soiree wear them,” the Duchess explained, as if sensing Geralt’s curiosity regarding the mask’s necessity, “If you have one on, no one asks who you are.”

 

Geralt gave a short nod; admittedly, he had assumed that the Duchess had donned her own mask, and worn her hair so differently to remain incognito - and that she had procured Geralt’s mask to prevent any head-hunters from identifying him and trying to claim the bounty. Perhaps the affinities of the Mandragora toward the mysterious and the intriguing would assist them in blending in even better than Geralt had anticipated.

 

“Let’s go,” he murmured, “Soiree’s started.”

 

“Wise of you to hide your weapons,” the Duchess commented, catching sight of Geralt’s back, utterly bereft of its usual deadly arsenal, all sharps and threat and bloodstained metal, “They’d not have let us in, otherwise, that’s for certain.”

 

Geralt breathed out through his nose, recalling his irritation at haggling with one of the ducal guardsmen to hold onto his weapons, leading into an irritating back-and-forth discourse regarding the witcher’s identity and importance as the Duchess’ protege.

 

He silently begged whatever aspect of fate was listening to him right now, as they made their way toward the gates of the Mandragora party, already brimming with sounds of laughter and drunken rabble, that the remainder of the night would go smoother than his earlier evening had gone.

 

⧫⧫⧫

 

The evening had not gone as smoothly as Geralt had hoped.

 

Although the night had started out in a promising manner; sure, the artists were pretentious and loud and soused to the point of nonsensical behaviour and irritating hooting that made Geralt’s sensitive ears ache slightly. However, the food and drink was wonderful, and the witcher and the Duchess had passed some time dabbling in the activities of the party. They had barely moved on from lighting paper lanterns and watching their lights ascend into the star-dotted Toussaint skyline, before their attention returned to their investigation.

 

Now, Geralt was leaning over the body of their singer, Cecilia, her throat slit and body already long-cold, their one link to the Cintrian dead. Thankfully, the mess left in the room that Cecilia had been occupying with her companion had yielded vital information to Geralt - he was left with more questions than answers, but he had two new leads to go on.

 

One precious jewel, the target of the man who had killed Cecilia.

 

The murder weapon, a hunting blade emblazoned with an icon of a family house.

 

It felt like so little to go one; but, they had managed to set upon the Cintrian’s trail with nothing more than a wine-stained scrap of paper. Geralt knew that these clues, no matter how inconsequential they may feel, would be important - they would mean something, something big.

 

They merely needed to show them to the right witnesses.

 

Geralt looked away from the open window as the door to the room opened; two bodyguards stepped over the threshold, flanking the Duchess, and a fourth figure - Geralt recognised her immediately, as the Duchess had pointed her out at the beginning of the party.

 

Lady Orianna; the woman owning the estate, and the one holding the Mandragora soiree.

 

“So, this is the tracker,” she spoke in a manner that curbed on the condescension Geralt so often received when being spoken of by folk with a bias against witchers, and he instinctively bristled as he awaited an insult or crude remark, “A witcher, yes?”

 

“Indeed, this is him,” the Duchess’ voice never faltered into such tones when addressing him, and Geralt breathed a sigh of relief, immediately relaxing, “We found the body together, then he set off in pursuit of the killer.”

 

The two women entered the room, and the Duchess eyed the room, gaze scanning over the blood splatters on the checkered-tile and the crooked candle sconce hanging at-angles from the wall by the window.

 

“And ended up here,” Geralt clarified, “But, I’ve only found evidence of a fight. Seems the Cintrian killed his last, finally failed this time. Shame it happened too late for Cecilia.”

 

“Poor girl,” Orianna spoke with genuine remorse, staring beyond the open window and out over the vineyards in the distance, “Always told her she chose her males badly. But, I never would have suspected she would arrive with a murderer.”

 

There was a brief silence, the room falling into a pregnant pause as the lady of the manor took a deep breath, her gaze prolonged and the set of her shoulders revealing her devastation to the keen observer.

 

“I’ll alert the staff, have them see to her body at once,” Orianna concluded finally, turning to lock eyes with the Duchess, then Geralt, “Meanwhile, we should sit. I will tell all, in full detail.”

 

⧫⧫⧫

 

Geralt had anticipated that things would pick up that evening after Orianna had made an appearance; she had shed light on both the origin of the jewel, and the crest on the hilt of the blade he had found at the scene of the murder. He now had two new leads to follow, and was one step closer to identifying the blackmailer that was driving Dettlaff to kill.

 

However, the Duchess waited until Orianna departed to greet a ‘guest’, at the beck of one of her bodyguards, before mentioning something that had Geralt’s gut twisting in worry as he mulled it over and over - her sister. A girl labelled as bearing the ‘Curse of the Black Sun’. He chewed the inside of his cheek in anxious contemplation as he recalled Renfri, his mind suddenly back in Blaviken, where he had earned his awful nickname, the one that somehow caught up to him wherever he went.

 

Now, Geralt was to go to Dun Tynne, the estate bearing the crest on the hilt of the dagger, to extract not only Dettlaff’s lover, but the Duchess’ sister - the woman they both now suspected strongly of being responsible for the blackmailing of the higher vampire.

 

“Your Grace,” Orianna’s voice brought him back to reality, dragging him out of Blaviken and back to the balcony where he was sitting beside the Duchess, far, far from the bloody incident involving Renfri, “Geralt, I’d like to introduce -”

 

“Regis!” The Duchess’ tone was excited and bright, almost captioning Geralt’s own surprise at the sight of the higher vampire, “What a surprise. I had no idea you were in Beauclair. And, this is -?”

 

Geralt’s gaze moved from Regis, following the lines of sight from the Duchess and Orianna, and he had to hold in his reaction, upon seeing Dettlaff; he set his jaw and tried not to react in a manner that would draw questions from the Duchess.

 

“My very dear friend, Dettlaff van der Eretein,” Regis smiled as the black-clad and brooding vampire stepped forward, his eyes on the Duchess, “An arrival from Nazair. We are lending our combined resources to the witcher’s hunt.”   
  


“Ah, yes,” the Duchess smiled, seemingly enchanted by Dettlaff already, “But, why are you here, at Orianna’s?”

 

“They came to pay me a suprise visit, so I invited Regis in for a glass of wine,” Orianna seemed more alive and more happy than Geralt had observed prior, already indicating how close she was to the higher vampire, “We’ve known each other for ages, literally.”

 

Geralt furrowed his brow slightly at the unusual pause in her explanation.

 

“Witcher, I hear you know Regis, too,” Orianna continued to speak, her tone clipped and purposeful in a way that had Geralt immediately on-edge, his mind frantically trying to assess what, exactly, her purpose was, “Even that you are friends?”

 

He broke his silence with a short, “Seem surprised. Why?”

 

“I never would have suspected Regis to find common ground with a witcher,” her words were broken with another peculiar pause that had Geralt narrowing his eyes at the woman, as subtly as he could.

 

He certainly did not expect the night to end up this way; with him sitting down at this strange woman’s table, alongside an old friend, the Duchess of Toussaint, and the vampire he knew had been blackmailed to commit the murders he was here to solve - and undoubtedly was being blackmailed to commit future atrocities.

 

He certainly did not anticipate sitting down at this table, and listening as Regis explained away Geralt’s nature in a manner that drew the line between flattering and unwittingly insulting.

 

“Master witcher,” Orianna addressed him once more, gaining his attention immediately, “Maybe you could satisfy my curiosity. What’s it like going toe to toe with a monster, knowing you have only two options - to kill, or be killed?”

 

Geralt grit his teeth slightly before speaking, “Despite what you might’ve heard, I don’t lunge at every monster I see, sword in hand. Talking gets the job done, for some.” He tensed slightly as Dettlaff slowly and purposefully lowered himself into the seat opposite him, eyes intense and fixed directly on him.

 

Orianna hummed, almost to herself, “I wonder what a monster might have to say to you.”

 

“It might want to apologise,” Dettlaff’s voice was unexpected, and Geralt immediately turned to return that unbelievably unfaltering gaze.

 

“My word,” the Duchess piped up, seemingly astonished by Dettlaff’s point, “For what might a monster wish to apologise to a witcher?”

 

“For killing,” Dettlaff’s eye never left Geralt, in spite of his response being directed at the Duchess, “Though at times there is no choice. When loved ones are at risk and require protection.” He raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at Geralt, “Perhaps, when one sees their beloved faced down by a ravenous pack, he will fight tooth and nail to stop them.”

 

Geralt furrowed his brow, watching Dettlaff carefully.

 

“Surely you understand my point, witcher,” the higher vampire spoke darkly, “That one will often cut those down who are different, without mercy or remorse, when their target of affection is faced with the grim prospect of their own fate.”

 

Geralt swallowed slightly, recalling how he had leapt into the fray upon seeing Damien and his men fighting back the slashing claws of the vampire pack that had attacked them in the woods near Fabricio’s winery. He narrowed his eyes, knowing that Dettlaff had a direct line to the lesser vampires - Regis had mentioned the other higher vampire’s held-sway with their lower-brethren.

 

Geralt was uncertain why that situation came to mind at the thought of protecting one’s beloved, but he could not deny the strange aptness he felt between the incident and Dettlaff’s words.

 

“Same as humans,” Geralt spoke in a manner that implied, but did not directly state - and witchers “Put them in that situation and they’ll kill too.”

 

“You understand this?” Dettlaff raised both brows, seemingly surprised by Geralt’s answer, “It must be why you and Regis are friends.”

 

There was another, sluggish pause that fell over the table like a damp rag, before Dettlaff continued his thought, his usually darkened and frighteningly broody features somewhat more open as he spoke.

 

“If I understand you correctly,” he muttered lowly, almost uncertainly, “You would rather help a monster, than kill it?”

 

Geralt struggled to maintain his composure beneath that intense stare; he wondered, almost fearfully, whether Dettlaff could sense, hear or read - somehow - his inner turmoil as he continued to unwillingly think back to the fight in the woods, and how he had felt so eager to fight at Damien’s side, so driven to protect him from the vampires - not just as the witcher that the Duchess had brought in to fight the vampires and the beast, but to defend Damien, prevent him from coming to harm, because the thought in itself was enough to draw him into the fray.

 

It made no sense to him, but he still managed to grate out an answer, “If possible, yeah. Or, at least try.”

 

The higher vampire’s gaze became almost knowing - Geralt wondered if Dettlaff was likening the witcher’s situation to his own; the desire to throw oneself into a violent and bloody swathe in order to protect someone, whilst not being human quite enough to understand why.

 

Geralt was relieved when Orianna offered to retrieve more wine, leaping at the opportunity to escape the table; he made a feeble excuse to take Regis with him, relieved with the vampire accepted his request and followed him out of the room.

 

Geralt only really took a good and deep breath once he had escaped from the peculiar interrogation from Dettlaff, left with only the lingering thought that the vampire he had been sent to stop - to hunt - may be the only one in Beauclair who truly understood how he was feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Regis gets to play romantic counsellor, and we get some more time between Geralt and Damien. <3


	5. Counsel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, sorry for the long wait again! But, here we go, the start of Regis' romantic counsel to his friend's love troubles. <3

“An exceptional conversation, don’t you think? Vampires, a witcher, and the Duchess of Toussaint - my, my.”

 

Geralt gave the crates of wine a cursory look, not as genuinely interested in selecting a suitable bottle as he had expressed to escape the awkward interaction at Orianna’s table. He would push Regis to picking an appropriate wine - after he was finished picking the higher vampire’s brain about what possessed him to bring the volatile vampire he had specifically requested Regis keep at a distance from anyone important to the Duchy.

 

And, now, Dettlaff was so close to the Duchess - sure, she was not yet a specified target of the beast, as far as they knew, but Geralt did not wish for the impulsive vampire to fly off the handle and murder the leader of Toussaint.

 

“Geralt,” Regis’ ever-calm voice brought him away from his thoughts and back to Orianna’s cellar, “You look troubled, as if your mind is occupied by something disconcerting to you. Are you feeling alright?”

 

Geralt gave a short nod and a grunt of affirmation, “Yeah, I was just considering what the Duchess told me while Orianna was showing you and Dettlaff in.” 

 

He paused for a moment, before opening his mouth to demand exactly why Regis had thought bringing Dettlaff anywhere close to the more civilised heart of Beauclair during such a turbulent time was a good idea - while the area in question was still so abuzz with activity after the Mandragora party, with all the drunken artists and party-goers still certainly staggering homeward.

 

Perfect victims for a volatile vampire who was quick to fly off the handle and nursing a very fragile emotional state.

 

Regis, however, interrupted him quickly, his hand migrating from its usual spot gripping the strap of his satchel, and stroking his chin in an exaggerated gesture of philosophical consideration.

 

“I do recall mentioning how similar you are to Dettlaff prior to now,” the vampire spoke with an edge of quiet implication that had Geralt eyeing him carefully, “You only continue to confirm this as time goes on, my friend. You seem to be going through a similar turmoil, if your body language and disposition is any indication - could it be that you are troubled by something romantic?”

 

Geralt groaned - of all the times for Regis to bring up his love life, of all things, he chose the cellar of a hitherto stranger of a Toussaint noblewoman, in the midst of his plotting an infiltration of a major estate that contained to women he needed to extract without any form of harm.

 

Regis’ timing could not have been worse.

 

“Regis,” his tone was much more of a beg than he had intended, and he inwardly cursed at how apparent he could be for someone who usually managed to guard their emotions so well, “I know you haven’t been around me for some time - since Vilgefortz - but romance hasn’t exactly been a big part of my life recently. Yennefer and I parted ways some time ago - she’s still with Emhyr, serving in the Nilfgaardian court.”

 

Regis raised an eyebrow, “I don’t recall ever mentioning the name ‘Yennefer’.”

 

Geralt froze and cursed Regis’ inhuman intuition - the aforementioned sorceress was capable of reading minds. Who was to say vampires could not? After all, they could turn into fog, change their corporeal form to something deadly and beastly when under threat, and even talk to ravens -

 

Oh.

 

Oh. Gods, damn it.

 

“Regis,” Geralt breathed out a small sigh, “What exactly do you know? What did the ravens tell you?”

 

The vampire gave a small, coy, all-too-pleased-with-himself smile, “Merely that you are becoming quite close to Captain de la Tour, even jumping to his defense when faced by a bloodthirsty horde of vampires.”

 

Geralt groaned, unable to believe that Regis had not only been spying on him with ravens again, but that the ravens had actually reported something so bizarre and personal to him - and that the raven’s had reached a more conclusive interpretation of events than even he had.

 

“I will admit that I always knew you were quite attracted to those who were capable, and I cannot deny that the Captain is a very gallant and attractive man -” The vampire was in full-swing, on one of his characteristic rants that he always engaged in when a topic fascinated him.

 

“Regis.”

 

“I’m not one to know much about the ways of attractiveness and appeal among humans - or witchers - but I know that the Captain is certainly an understandable target of your affections. Unexpected, yes, but understandable -”

 

“Regis!”

 

Geralt’s raised voice was apparently enough to snap the vampire’s attention back to him. Geralt knew his pale skin was a terrible traitor and a fickle shield whenever he experienced any kind of attraction - or confusion about attraction - and he was almost certain he was burning up simply from the embarrassment of the fact that Regis was getting so clucky about his romantic life. Just one glance at the vampire was enough to confirm this thought; he could see Regis was bursting at the seams, wanting to talk more on the subject of the ‘handsome Captain’.

 

Perhaps helping Dettlaff in his romantic troubles with his ‘mate’ had made Regis some sort of perceived match-maker - seeing romance everywhere around him, not matter how dysfunctional or unlikely.

 

“I don’t think Damien has time for romance,” Geralt murmured, “Or the interest.”

 

Geralt inwardly cursed at himself for sounding so disappointed in tone, and was so busy cursing his mistake in tone that he only had a moment to think of the fact that he had referred to the Captain by his first name - and, judging by Regis’ almost excited gaze, he had noticed it too.

 

“I really do believe the good Captain may return your feelings,” Regis smiled, flashing his fangs in a gesture reserved only for those he deeply trusted, “The ravens did not just watch you, my dear friend.”

 

Geralt realised what the vampire was implying, trying to imagine exactly what thought process had possessed the vampire to send a raven trailing after Damien, and whether it had originally been with the intent in meddling in ‘romantic affairs’.

 

Geralt sighed a little too exaggeratedly, running a hand across his face in an overplayed display of distress - mostly it was intended to hide the blush he knew he had to be showing. 

 

Damn it, why was that not something his mutations had robbed him of.

 

“Regis, you know I was brought to Toussaint to hunt a beast,” he muttered almost dejectedly, “I’m not here on pleasure. This is business. No time for romance or beating around that bush.”

 

Regis quirked an eyebrow knowingly, seeing right through Geralt’s admittedly terrible ruse, “I don’t recall the division between business and pleasure ever preventing you from mixing the two in the past, Geralt.”

 

That got a small chuckle out of Geralt; Regis was not wrong on that count whatsoever.

 

“Well, even so,” he spoke with a slightly more amused tone, temperament eased slightly by Regis’ half-joke, half-observation, “I really don’t think that you are right on the count of Damien. He’s a man devoted to the needs of the Duchy; even less likely to foray into the world of mixing business and pleasure than any other professional is.”

 

Regis gave a short chuckle of his own, “I assure you, Geralt, that you will be surprised,” the vampire stepped forward, giving the bottles of wine a brief scan before pluck one up by the neck and nodding, eyes reading over the dusted and dark glass and the yellowed label.

 

Geralt watched the vampire as he made he began making his way back toward Orianna’s table, clearly more mindful of how much time they had spent in the wine cellar than Geralt was. The witcher sighed, unable to deny that - while he was disappointed at not sharing the Duchess’ information regarding her sister with him - Regis’ words were now stuck in his mind, replaying over and over again.

 

‘I assure you, Geralt, that you will be surprised.’

 

He could not help but wonder what the vampire had meant at the unexpected utterance of the word ‘will’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was definitely inspired by Regis' comparison of Geralt to Dettlaff. I know he meant with his demeanor and emotional-cageyness and impulsivity, but I can't help but see some similarities between the two of them with romance.
> 
> I didn't get to the Damien and Geralt bonding time I wanted to, but that's a subject for the next chapter. ;) <3


	6. Exchange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW, the thesis is really picking up, but here we go, we're beginning to move into the really fun parts, guys! Finally, some more interactions between everyone's favourite witcher and Captain. <3 <3

By the time Geralt had bid farewell to the Duchess, midnight had long passed, and the street crowds were already beginning to dwindle; aside from the odd drunkard staggering about and the stragglers still lingering around the vicinity of Orianna’s estate, the streets were relatively bereft of people, and Geralt found himself able to properly collect his thoughts after the noisy party and hectic investigation of the night prior.

 

Admittedly, Regis’ insinuating words were still rattling about in his mind, but he was doing his best to try and plan how he was going to extricate the Duchess’ sister and Dettlaff’s mate from Dun Tynne without any casualties - in spite of the fact that the Duchess’ sister may very well be involved in the initial murders and blackmailings.

 

No time to focus on decoding whatever Regis had been trying to imply.

 

Geralt briefly considered retiring to Corvo Bianco for the night, before shirking the idea at the thought of a long ride across the Toussaint countryside; witchers may not get the jitters, but even he felt exhausted after a long night at a soiree like the Mandragora. He did not particularly fancy a bumpy ride to the vineyard, only to arrive as dawn was breaking with little time for any proper sleep.

 

Before he was even paying it any mind, his feet were carrying him in the direction of the portside guard post, almost automatically. He knew the place was secure, and the Duchess had already informed him that he was to meet Damien at the lakeside mill of the former Count de la Croix, at midnight - he had plenty of time to rest and prepare potions, and try and get his mind together - he internally damned Regis for about the fifth or sixth time since he had left Orianna’s. That higher vampire was entirely too prying for his own good.

 

Geralt pushed the door of the guard post open, nodding a small greeting to the too-tired looking guard standing outside. He noted that his swords and crossbow had been gently placed against a wall inside, thanks to the guard he had passed them off to the night prior, and breathed a sigh of relief - he could not help but feel naked without his weapons, in his line of work.

 

“How did the soiree go?”

 

Geralt was astonished he had not heard the breathing of the room’s current occupant - he was usually so attentive, and he damned Regis one more time for putting such distracting thoughts in his mind - and he managed to restrain a small jolt of surprise as he turned to face Damien.

 

The Captain was poring over a number of notes and sketches that almost certainly pertained to the case of the Beast, Geralt did not need to see them to confirm that fact; somehow Geralt doubted that he had been sleeping while the Mandragora was in full swing. He was far too devoted to use precious time that could be devoted to checking and re-checking case notes sleeping.

 

Geralt restrained a small chuckle at his little internal joke, and moved closer to the Captain, craning his neck and eyeing the papers he was meticulously scanning over.

 

“The usual upper-class function you’d expect; lots of expensive drinks and food, and rowdy men and women with time to kill,” Geralt murmured, his eyes scanning the papers but not really taking any of their contents in, “A little bit more Southern charm to it than what I’m used to with Northern parties, I’ll admit.”

 

Damien chuckled lightly, “I can’t help but wonder about these ‘Northern parties’ at your mention of them. You sound pleasantly surprised by our Southern charm.”

 

Geralt gave a short shrug, ignoring the fact that Damien’s focus was still on his papers, “You’re not missing anything. Just more stuffy interactions between nobles - the North is just a little colder, so you’re usually stuck in a room full of them. Very little breathing room.”

 

The Captain chuckled in earnest at his comment, and finally sat up and turned to face Geralt, a response already ready on his tongue; he stopped when his gaze fell on Geralt, and - for a moment - the witcher could not decipher what had caused the Captain’s sudden pause.

 

Damien’s gaze scanned the robe that the witcher had donned, eyes unable to stray from the emerald and gold lining, and the matching sash that ran about the witcher’s waist. The robe was a great departure from the usual armour that Geralt donned, and Damien could not deny that the change of attire had caught his attention very strongly.

 

It was by no means an unwelcome departure from his usual garb; Damien found the change somewhat welcome, for reasons he did not quite understand himself.

 

“What is it?” Geralt’s voice snapped him back to reality, and he saw that the witcher was scanning himself over almost worriedly, eyeing his own robe with a critical gaze, “Do I have something on me? We did have to investigate the scene of an attack, but it was a lot cleaner than ones I’ve examined in the past -”

 

“No, no, everything’s fine,” Damien murmured, finding it unbelievably hard to move his tongue properly, all of a sudden, “I’ve just never seen you in anything other than armour before. Certainly not a robe quite like this one.”

 

Geralt raised both eyebrows at this, “The Duchess took notice of it too. I didn’t realise it would be so out of place here in Toussaint. She mentioned it was more Redanian in style.”

 

Damien continued to stare at the robe, noticing Geralt’s words but barely hearing them; he had been taught etiquette better than this, never to stare at someone’s attire for too long, lest you make them feel uncomfortable - and this applied doubly so to any guest of anyone so illustrious as Her Grace.

 

And, yet - somehow - the knowledge that he was probably breaking several rules of etiquette did not bother him, and certainly did not deter him from eyeing how the robe the witcher was currently donning accentuated his body much more clearly than the larger and more-boxy shapes of any armour ever could, and that he could get a genuinely clearer image of how Geralt looked beneath his armour.

 

Damien almost balked at his own thoughts, wondering why imagining such a thing was so appealing to him.

 

Despite Damien’s certainly-impolite stare, Geralt responded unflinchingly to him, seeming almost unphased by the peculiar attention being shown to his attire - and to him.

 

“The Duchess did mention that this robe was sure to get attention,” Geralt spoke with an almost playful air, seeming more amused by Damien’s gaze than anything, much to the Captain’s relief, “I can change back into my armour, if that would make you more comfortable.”

 

Damien balked again, visibly this time, and Geralt chuckled and smiled - actually smiled, for the first time since they had been initially introduced. Something about seeing the witcher breaking out into a smile, however small, was unbelievably enthralling to Damien, and he was almost certain that his cheeks were flushed at the sight.

 

He began thanking the Heron a thousand times over for the only light in the room coming from dim candles, hoping that it was enough to cover his sudden loss of his usually undeniable composure.

 

Geralt was already turning towards the armour he had left at the guard post prior to leaving for the Mandragora, already undoing the sash of his robe. Damien suddenly felt impossibly more red in the face than before, and he found himself turning away as quickly as he could manage without being too inconspicuous with his movements, his attention falling on absolutely anything but the witcher.

 

The sketches and notes on the table were mundane as they come, but he knew that ogling them was more polite and courteous than ogling the witcher - particularly after he had stared at him so impolitely only moments prior.

 

After a few moments of waiting - painfully gradual and somehow harder than looking away from any woman adjusting her corset during a moment of temporary discomfort at any of the formal functions Damien had attended in the past - Geralt was clasping his sword-belt together at the buckle across his chest, before adjusting both his armour and arsenal to ensure everything was comfortable and sitting right.

 

Damien could not deny that he was disappointed to see Geralt back in his armour; however, the witcher was not any less handsome in any attire he chose to wear, that much was clear to the Captain now - no matter how much such a thought continued to plague him with confusion.

 

“Has the Duchess passed along word of how we’re proceeding?” Geralt inquired, checking over Damien’s notes quickly as if expecting to find some indication of this fact, “A lot happened at the Mandragora. A few things have changed.”

 

Damien cleared his throat, which suddenly felt as if he had swallowed several spoonfuls of thick honey and attempted to wash it down with absinthe, “Yes, a messenger passed along a missive regarding the next phase of our operation. We’ll convene over the plans for storming Dun Tynne at the mill at midnight, tonight.”

 

Geralt gave a short nod, shuffling on the spot for a moment, almost awkwardly; Damien regarded the witcher for a moment, and began to internally curse his inability to read the witcher as clearly as he read the body language and mannerisms of others.

 

Whereas most were open books, Geralt was a closed book that was safely secured behind an additional pane of glass; Damien could see everything that was happening, but it was not as clear as he wished, and he had to make do with what little he could see and attempt to decipher.

 

Geralt, thankfully, broke the strange and awkward standstill in their interaction, his gaze falling back to the notes on the table as he spoke, “I suppose if we have time to convene over the details tonight, I’ll take this opportunity to meditate. Perhaps prepare a few potions, just in case.”

 

Damien watched as the witcher moved to a nearby chair, and quirked a brow as, instead of sitting on the chair, he moved to crouch beside it in an odd posture, curling his legs beneath him and resting his hands upon his thighs. Damien recalled some of the tomes he had managed to scour prior to Geralt’s arrival in Toussaint, regarding witchers and their unusual ways and biology and the strange culture they had created, and recalled that, once meditating, a witcher could sustain such a state for hours.

 

He began to consider the possibility that Geralt may be intending to pass the majority of the wait for midnight in a meditative state; somehow, the thought of Geralt sitting in silence, and wasting a perfectly good opportunity to talk - about the mission, of course - bothered Damien more than he truly understood, and before he knew it, words were blurting from his mouth, and he was cursing himself internally once again.

 

“If you are merely passing the time, Geralt, would you care for a proper tour of the city?”

 

Damien cursed himself internally a few more times at the sheer stupidity and unbelievably unprecedented nature of his words, and winced as Geralt cracked open one of his cat-like eyes; he would not blame the witcher if he was annoyed at the bizarre interruption to his meditation, especially with such a ridiculous suggestion. Geralt had been here for over a week and a half now, why would he need a tour of the city?

 

Damien paused his internal berating of himself in surprise as Geralt broke out into another smile - it was small, but it was certainly there, and it took Damien’s breath away a second time in one short night. The witcher was already moving to stand as he answered Damien’s sudden request with a pleased tone, that was laced ever-so-slightly with something else that Damien struggled to pinpoint the exact meaning of.

 

“I would be happy to, Damien.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is going to be even longer and filled with lots of fun stuff, ohoho. I guess that you could consider this to be their first official date, no? <3


	7. Stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your lovely kudos and comments! <3 You bring me life! I'm so sorry for the wait, we've begun collecting data at our laboratory for my thesis, and hoo-boy have I been beat! Anyway, here we have some lovely bonding time between Geralt and Damien before the attack on Dun Tynne.

For all the tomes that Damien had researched that had indicated that witchers were nothing more than cold-blooded mutants, entirely bereft of emotions, Damien’s own conclusion based on his current circumstances could not be less consistent with this prior knowledge; at no point had his research included the terms ‘delightful company’ and ‘attentive listener’.

 

Geralt may not have been the sort to engage in pronounced displays of emotion - perhaps to someone else, Geralt’s behaviour on the Captain’s impromptu tour of the city would be construed as bitterly quiet, and perhaps even passively hostile. However, Damien liked to believe that he had come to know Geralt better than this after their time working together on the case of the Beast; perhaps it was a presumptuous thing to consider of himself, but Damien found himself picking up on more subtle behavioural cues from the witcher, ones that he would have missed during their earlier days of contact with one another.

 

The witcher’s mare matched the pace of Damien’s own as the Captain pointed out the more noteworthy locales in Beauclair as they moved through the streets, the street crowds parting for them, often sharing looks and words hidden behind their hands. The witcher ignored any looks and words coming from the townsfolk in favour of listening attentively to the Captain, only breaking his silence with the occasional sound of interested affirmation, his eyes never straying from Damien as he continued to list off details regarding the sites they visited.

 

As they continued their little tour of Beauclair, Geralt eventually began asking small questions; they had the same investigative tone that Damien had previously heard the witcher use during their interrogation of Master Fabricio, with the slightest hint of something else - something like genuine curiosity. Damien knew that, perhaps, Geralt’s almost guarded, professional tone was likely due to habit from his line of work, and thus he was genuinely flattered when the witcher’s tone became something more humane whenever he asked him a question about the history of a building, or the reason behind the placement of a statue or fountain.

 

“The town does seem rather quiet today,” the witcher pointed out as they rounded another corner and made their way down a street wide enough to be busy, but as empty of occupants as the witcher said.

 

Damien nodded and gave the witcher a smile, “Yes, they are likely in one of the town squares, where the wine and food tents are. Either that, or they’re purveying the markets, they will be getting a lot of business at the moment.”

 

One of the many wine festivals was currently in full swing, with a number of tables set up around the squares of the city, laden with wine and food, with bards playing music and plenty of soused townspeople spinning in dance and shouting in drunken song. Damien had never been particularly fond of parties, having been exposed to a large number of formal gatherings as part of his career guarding the Duchess - admittedly, the perspective was different when one was guarding the guests at the party, and not mingling with them, but Damien had never enjoyed large social events of any kind. Perhaps that was what drew him to his line of work, something where he was admittedly - ultimately - the guardian of another, but still maintained overall dominion of himself.

 

Perhaps that was what drew him to Geralt; the witcher seemed to view parties in a similar manner, as Damien noted a brief look of discomfort cross the witcher’s face as the crowd began to thicken as they neared where one of the many epicentres of the festival was currently occurring. Damien could not help but notice that, every now and again, the witcher’s eyes seemed to flick skyward, as if eyeing something on the nearby rooftops; Damien spared a few short glances, fearing that perhaps Geralt had spotted an assailant of some kind - perhaps a bandit, or some troublemaker, who wanted to take advantage of the wine festival to cause mischief or chaos.

 

Damien noticed nothing out of the ordinary, and decided that the witcher’s distress had to be due to the growing crowd around them; he knew that Geralt was matching his pace, and he immediately detoured, leading them both away from the crowded town square; he was not particularly fond of the idea of wading through a crowd, and he was more than happy to take the opportunity to break away from the hustle and bustle of the drunken townspeople’s shouting and pushing.

 

The streets quieted more and more as they moved further from the square, and closer to the one place that Damien had in mind as being perfect; one of the royal greenhouses would be the perfect place to round off their tour, away from all the noise and clamouring crowds. Damien was acutely aware that the day was quickly escaping them during their tour, and that they would eventually have to begin making their way toward the mill, in order to ready for their assault on Dun Tynne.

 

Damien could not imagine a better place to round off their tour than one of the greenhouses; he frequented them himself during his limited spare time, enjoying the solace and peace, often spending his time reading among the plants or merely sitting and thinking. His mind briefly wandered to an image of Geralt meditating, merely closing his eyes and breathing long and slow breaths, and he chuckled, finding himself understanding the beneficial nature of it all of a sudden.

 

They arrived at one of the greenhouses, and both dismounted their horses; Damien gestured to the vineyards rolling across the grounds beyond, and began explaining some of the long history of the nearby wineries. To his surprise, the witcher he had originally viewed as terse and short-cut of speech and tolerance was still listening, in spite of the tour already having gone for hours. Geralt continued to ask the occasional question, making little prompting quips and sounds of affirmation as Damien continued to speak.

 

“I suppose a place with such a long and important history of wine and drinking must have more than three quarters of its lands be vineyards,” Geralt gazed out across the terrain, leaning on the pale stone wall as his eyes scanned the horizon, over the grape fields being picked away at by groups of farmhands and peasant workers, “So much more beautiful than the North.”

 

Damien blinked at him, “Surely there are vineyards in Velen. At least close to Novigrad, it’s a major capital city. A big cultural centre; many nobles from Toussaint speak so well of that city as being a wonderful bounty of plays and theatre and history.”

 

“Some parts of Novigrad are,” Geralt responded, “There are farms, but the North was hit hard by the war. Lots of the land is muddy battlefields and war-scarred terrain. Lots of monster-infested swamps too, the monster problem is much thicker than the one here, or perhaps just hidden less effectively.”

 

Damien leaned forward, his arms resting against the wall in a manner that mirrored Geralt’s, “Yes, we heard about the conflict between the Northern Realms and Nilfgaard. There was a brief time where we feared the conflict may arrive at our border, that Nilfgaard may seek to expand to the Duchy.”

 

Geralt quirked his head slightly to the side in a questioning manner, “What stopped that fear? What changed?”

 

Damien gave a smirk, “We have Her Grace to thank for that. Effective leadership can go a long way in preventing a conflict. Nilfgaard managed to take advantage of the Northern Realms due to political weakness; they saw an opportunity and they took it. The Duchy held strong during that time, and Nilfgaard likely saw no effective opportunity to take advantage of. They saw no way to execute any sort of expansion without losing too much. They instead view Toussaint as a vassal state, a method that prevented the need for any moves that may be foolish.”

 

Geralt nodded, somewhat slowly, “The Nilfgaardian Emperor certainly isn’t foolish.”

 

Damien chuckled, “Not at all. Thankfully, neither is Her Grace.”

 

A moment of silence passed between them; Damien was enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun, and - out of the corner of his eye - he could see the same feeling passing over Geralt, the witcher closing his eyes against the bright light and letting out a low, but seemingly happy sigh.

 

Damien swallowed, tearing his eyes away and focusing on the vineyards once again, fighting to keep his voice from faltering or failing him as he broke the silence, “Tell me more about the North.”

 

Geralt looked up, and Damien had to fight back a hitch in his breath; Geralt’s pupils had constricted, tight, in the bright afternoon sunlight, nothing more than a thin, black line slicing through golden amber. His eyes looked even less human than they usually did, and - somehow - it had Damien swallowing thickly and feeling a wave of something perplexing passing through him; once upon a time, he would have viewed that inhumanity as something vile, and that thought sickened him to the core.

 

How could he view such a thing as anything but beautiful.

 

Geralt gave a small smile, “What would you like to know?”

 

Damien gave the question some thought for a moment; what would he like to know? He had learned so much of the other territories from reading historical texts throughout his lifetime. Being a man in his high position within the Duchy, Damien was well versed in the history and politics of the other territories and capitals - he was even well versed in some of their languages, with the understanding of another’s tongue being viewed as a means to provide advantage in dealing with foreign ambassadors and representatives.

 

He knew so much about the North, when he considered that question - all but one location were very well known to him. His eyes returned to Geralt, and this time he looked at him openly, his eyes trailing down his neck to where the medallion hung about his throat, the wolf’s head suspended in the air where Geralt was leaning forward.

 

Damien spoke the name almost reverently, “Kaer Morhen - tell me about Kaer Morhen.”

 

Geralt looked up with those unbelievably constricted eyes at the mention of the witcher school - the witcher school he called home as a boy, and the one that made him the man, the monster-slayer, he was today. Damien froze inwardly for a moment, wondering if his sudden questioning about the ‘witcher castle, hidden in the mountains’ - as one tome that Damien had researched prior to Geralt’s arrival had phrased it - had offended the witcher.

 

However, Geralt’s expression remained calm and open to the question as he responded, “It was my home. Only home I ever knew. It’s been home again and again for many winters too, to myself, and many other witchers over the years.”

 

“Do other witchers remain there?” Damien inquired, trying to picture what a castle or citadel entirely occupied by witchers, and no one else, would look like, “Even just during the winters.”

 

Geralt swallowed and paused for a moment, digesting the question as if it hurt to contemplate his own answer, “No longer. For a time, there were many. Fewer each year, they ceased to return to the castle during the winters, and there hasn’t been any new witchers or apprentices for a long time now. The remaining witchers that wintered there will likely not return there.”

 

Damien sensed there was more implication to that statement of fact than Geralt was letting on, but he sensed even more distress in the witcher’s words than he could take - clearly this was something that caused him pain to even consider, so Damien merely nodded slowly, and gestured for the witcher to continue speaking; their roles now reversed, Geralt giving something of a verbal ‘tour’ of the castle he spent his youth being reared in as a young witcher, and Damien listening, intrigued.

 

Geralt explained so much more than any text or dusty old tome ever could; he told Damien of the trials that the young witchers undertook to gain their medallion, their mutations. He told Damien of how he had passed his trials, and how he had been exposed to mutagens and mutations that the other witchers had not - how they were the reason for his linen-white skin and snow-white hair.

 

He told Damien of the witcher signs, a number of basic magic skills that witchers could utilise in and out of battle; Damien made a mental note to ask him more about those signs at another time, his curiosity piqued at the mention of them - something the books had little information on - but he allowed the witcher to continue speaking, enjoying listening to Geralt’s rough and low voice telling him so much, filling in so many gaps in Damien’s knowledge of him.

 

It took Damien a moment - a long moment - to realise that, as Geralt had been speaking and he had been so enthralled by listening to his voice and his stories of Kaer Morhen, that he had unconsciously leaned closer to Geralt, both leaning on the wall by their elbows, the view of the vineyards long forgotten by Damien in favour of focusing solely on Geralt, on his rough voice and the way his snow-white hair looked in the afternoon sunlight.

 

Damien had no idea whether he was losing his mind with all of these strange thoughts about the witcher, but it almost seemed like Geralt was leaning closer to him in turn, their shoulders touching lightly as they continued to speak; Geralt speaking stories, and Damien voicing the occasional question and smiling in appreciation of the witcher’s willingness to share them with him.

 

Geralt was in the middle of a story about his first time sparring with one of the older witchers of Kaer Morhen, mentioning how it had been raining only an hour prior to their duel, and he had lost due to slipping in the mud and falling flat on his face. He broke off into a small burst of laughter, in the form of a low, husky chuckle that was somehow so much more genuine than any other laugh Damien had ever heard - from anyone.

 

The Captain found himself staring, slightly open-mouthed, in response to the sound, taken aback by how abrupt, and how obvious and unrestrained it was. Damien wondered if Geralt could hear his heart speeding up, because something made the witcher turn toward him, mouth still crooked into a surprisingly wide smile as he found himself close - very close, almost nose to nose - with the Captain.

 

The moment seemed even longer than before as Damien stared into Geralt’s eyes, unable to deny that their proximity had his heart hammering hard in his chest, his mouth feeling impossibly dry, and that strange, and almost nagging feeling that had been plaguing him in the presence of the witcher these last few weeks sweeping down upon him almost tenfold. Geralt’s cat-like eyes flicked over Damien’s face, as if he were silently searching for something in the Captain’s expression, their gazes locked for the longest moment of Damien’s life. The Captain could feel Geralt’s breath on his own lips, and he did not need the superhuman senses of a witcher to know that his breath was coming faster, and that it almost felt that the distance between them was continuing to close, but remaining impossibly and agonisingly far.

 

The Captain almost cursed out loud at the sound of the bell of the clocktower signalling that late evening had fallen, and the two of them found themselves pulling their gazes - very reluctantly, on both their parts, Damien noted quickly - toward the clock, eyeing the time shown upon its face.

 

It was time to depart for the mill.

 

Damien reluctantly led the witcher back to their mounts, and made a silent vow to himself to return alive from this mission, and ensure that Geralt did the same; if, for no other reason, to hear the remainder of the story the witcher had been telling, and hear his wonderful laugh again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SUCH A TEASE. I would apologise, but this marks the beginning of the best parts. ;)


	8. Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT, and sorry if this chapter is a bit on the messy and nonsensical side! It's a segway into the bit everyone's waiting for. <3

They rode together to the mill, where a number of Damien’s ducal guardsmen were already waiting and ready, passing the time idly or actively, some doing pushups or practicing fighting techniques against one another, others chatting or smoking pipes in the cool night air.

 

They immediately snapped to attention at the sight of their Captain as he stopped his mare on the riverbank and dismounted, Geralt following his lead and falling in behind the Captain as they made their way into the mill; inside, they gathered about a small table in a dusty corner and went over the plan of attack.

 

Dun Tynne was by no means an insecure place of residence; from Damien’s phrasing, Geralt could only construe the place as being more akin to a small fortress than somebody’s private property. The addition of droves and droves of men, affiliated with the Cintrian, currently lodging onsite only added to Geralt’s perspective of the place.

 

Geralt remained relatively silent as Damien explained his plan, until he noticed an aspect of the Captain’s intended move on Dun Tynne that would allow him to vault over one of the rear walls, and take advantage of the disarray and distraction to eliminate unsuspecting guards and begin searching for Rhenawedd and Her Grace’s sister.

 

Damien balked momentarily at Geralt, swallowing and feeling as though his heart had skipped a beat at the thought of the witcher attacking one side of Dun Tynne - the opposite to him, and his men - and risking being outnumbered and completely overwhelmed.

 

However, much to the Captain’s dismay, he could tell by Geralt’s expression that he was resolute in his decision - Damien may be somewhat poor at reading the witcher, utterly confused by his feelings for him and the feelings he detected from him, but he had come to understand that, when Geralt had made a choice about something, he was stubborn as a mule and determined to see things through the way he had decided.

 

Damien could not help but admire it - love it. But, there was still that terrible feeling in his gut, that awful image of Geralt being incapable of fighting back the forces that would inevitably be present at Dun Tynne.

 

“Your plan puts you at great risk,” he murmured, glancing between the battle plan and the witcher’s eyes - glowing brightly in the dark of the mill - and swallowing down that lump in his throat, “But, I sense you will handle it well.”

 

_ I know you will. _

 

Damien wondered how implied his words were to Geralt; the witcher answered his spoken statement with a smile, almost knowing and unbelievably unhidden and confident. Damien could not help but return it, finding his confidence in the plan, in himself, in Damien’s men, and in Damien, utterly infectious.

 

“Let’s go.”

 

⧫⧫⧫

 

The posse of ducal guardsman moved out under a half hour later, already prepared and raring to go; Geralt and Damien took the lead of the group, speaking quietly to one another, voices heard only to one another and muffled to the Captain’s men by the sound of numerous hooves striking the earth.

 

“You have to promise to be careful,” Geralt was the first to break the silence that had settled between them after they had mounted their horses and struck out in the direction of Dun Tynne, “I know you care a lot for your men, but you need to remember to not neglect your own safety while you do so.”

 

Damien looked up at the abrupt statement, in slight disbelief that Geralt had been the first to speak - although, perhaps less surprised than he may have been a short time ago.

 

Damien gave a short nod in return, “I will, if you promise to do the same. You will be on the other side of the compound to my forces, if you do anything rash or dangerous, or if you’re injured, it will take us a time to reach you. You must be careful.”

 

Geralt chuckled lowly, “Of course I will. After all - I haven’t finished telling you that story.” His grin was definitely playful, and there were no doubts in Damien’s mind that playfulness was fully the witcher’s intent.

 

Damien was relieved that the movement of his steed and the nighttime lighting likely obscured his cheeks - he was certain he was flushed red from his chin to his ears, and that no amount of turning his head would obscure it.

 

Geralt and Damien continued to idly speak to one another - they kept their voices low and their words discrete, ever conscious about the ducal guardsmen riding behind them, unable to shake the feeling of being listened to in spite of the obscuring sounds of the horses. Damien bit the inside of his lip as they crossed the bridge over the river near Dun Tynne, signalling that it was time for Geralt to split away from the group and enact his part of the plan.

 

The witcher turned to the Captain, their eyes meeting in a long moment, one that felt like an eternity and not long enough all at once, before Damien gave a short nod to signal Geralt to move out; Geralt returned the nod quickly, and it felt as though a mutual, unspoken exchange had occurred between them.

 

Be careful; come back alive.

 

⧫⧫⧫

 

Geralt had vaulted over the rear wall, briefly pausing at the top of the structure to watch as Damien’s posse of guardsmen cracked their reins and sped their horses into a gallop along the trail leading to Dun Tynne. He swallowed thickly, knowing that their quick and thunderous approach could not be interpreted as anything but aggressive in nature, and the men stationed at the forefront of the compound would likely strike first and ask questions later - they were bandits and mercenaries, after all, and likely feared arrest for treason more than the consequences of fighting back against their capture and chancing a victory.

 

Geralt’s task had started out simple; the patrols were sparse around the rear of the compound, with only a handful of men meeting Geralt immediately in the stables, fighting with pikes, swords and shields in hand, whilst covered by only a few men armed with crossbows. Geralt had no trouble dispatching them, finding their numbers in no way any kind of threat as he ducked, weaved and pirouetted, steel sword flashing in the moonlight with each strike, his free hand casting signs to prevent the strikes from the arrows and drive back his attackers.

 

Making his way further into the compound, Geralt was met twice more with similar patrols, and he fended them off similarly. The men stationed in the rear regions of Dun Tynne seemed disorganised, and seemed to be more focused on defecting than making their way to where the majority of the conflict likely was, near the front gates where Damien’s men were audibly storming the place - Geralt could hear the shouting and screaming, the sound of steel meeting steel, and he could smell the burning of fabric, wood and land.

 

Judging by the reactions of the wannabe-defectors Geralt had run across, Damien’s forces had the upper hand and were continuing to make ground without fail. Geralt could not help but smile at this and breathe out a sighing breath of relief that he did not realise he had been holding for so long.

 

Continuing along the pathway through the rear sections of Dun Tynne, Geralt met with another patrol, this one gathered around a cart and hurriedly loading it with crates and bags and wares - atop the cart stood a man in fine clothing, a sword at his hip, his hands gesticulating and pointing wildly as he ordered the motley group of men around to continue stacking things onto the cart. This man was obviously the one in charge - none other than Roderick Dun Tynne himself.

 

Roderick Dun Tynne may have been one of a lineage of knights, but he fought like a rogue out of practice, utilising his free hand as a fist as much as he used his sword in battle. Geralt had no trouble downing him and his small cluster of rogues; swayed by a moment’s mercy, Geralt provided the downed leader of Dun Tynne with a rag to staunch the bleeding of the gash on his side, before moving onward, closer to the main tower at the centre of the compound - the tower that Damien had indicated as the ‘makeshift prison cell’ that held the two women they sought.

 

The sounds of battle that drifted from the front gate never abated, and Geralt kept part of his attention on them at all times, trying to listen for any subtle indications of Damien’s men pushing closer and closer to the main tower - indications that the guard Captain was succeeding in driving back the mercenaries that were swarming thick in the lower and front courtyards. 

 

Geralt was running across more and more men as he continued his trajectory toward his targeted building, his movements and swings never faltering; however, the battle was not without its effects, and the witcher could not help but notice that he was beginning to accumulate scratches and bruises and scuffs from impacts that could not be avoided from assaults in such numbers and at such quick succession. His witcher stamina kept him going, whereas a normal human would perhaps be suffering from battle fatigue at this point, exhaustion driving them back from the fight.

 

However, even Geralt could not deny - witcher or not - that the force that lay before him in the main courtyard was perhaps too much for even a witcher to fight back without risk of death. Damien’s men were already swarming into the yard, weapons and torches flashing in the throes of battle, but a sizeable unit of mercenaries had their attention focused on Geralt.

 

They looked desperate, no doubt fearing arrest or death at the hands of Damien and his men, constantly glancing over the railing nearby to the main courtyard at the fight happening only metres below. Geralt noticed their trepidation, and decided to try his hand at placating the men - if he could avoid fighting them in these numbers, he could keep his promise to the Duchess, and to Damien.

 

He growled out through gritted teeth, “Giving you one last chance - yield.”

 

The seemingly self-appointed leader of the squadron shoved one of the archers forward by the shoulder, “That damn harlots got us into this - kill him!”

 

Geralt stormed forward, utilising a burst of Quen to disrupt the arrow on its connection, before focusing on fighting for his life, employing the same swinging methods one would employ for a swarm of furious nekkers or pack of hungry drowners, applying enough force to break through the defenses of armour. Against a force of men this size, Geralt had to focus his attention at many points, his mind and sword arm working a mile a minute in tandem to fight back an overwhelming influx of strikes from his opponents.

 

A paired-slash to two men had them staggering back and collapsing in a pool of blood, and an elbow to the face drove another back; a flash of Igni incinerated another two, a slash to another, and a burst of Aard slammed into another three men.

 

Geralt cried out as he felt something pierce into his side, and he snarled, reaching around beneath his arm to the lower part of his abdomen, beneath his ribcage, feeling a crossbow bolt lodged in his side, blood already oozing slowly from the wound and wetting his armour; the wound was bleeding slowly, and Geralt knew that ripping the bolt out would likely cause a more deadly injury than its initial impact, so he refrained, turning his rage on the archer instead and combusting him in a long stream of Igni, followed with a plunging strike directly to the chest.

 

He panted in exhaustion and pain from his wound, and glanced around, noticing that another patrol had spotted him, and they were pointing wildly at him, and Geralt could hear them shouting that he was wounded, and that he would be ‘easy pickings now’.

 

Geralt planted his feet, raising his blade defensively, ready to meet their cruel onslaught, when a mist began gathering around the feet of the men, circling around them slowly.

 

Two streams of mist - one, such a deep violet that it was almost black, the other dark and deep red and flowing like an arterial bleed in warm water.

 

Geralt could barely register what was happening, before the men were screaming bloody murder, dragged into the depths of the building fog, as a strong and almost musty, herbaceous scent flooded into Geralt’s senses.

 

Next minute, there was a distinct lack of moving mercenaries, and two vampires were standing before him, much to Geralt’s surprise - although, he assumed he could hide absolutely nothing from the eyes of a vampire at this point, much less his decision to rescue the very woman one of them sought with every fibre of his being.

 

Regis and Dettlaff.

 

Geralt breathed a long sigh of pained relief, holding his injured side as he stood up straighter, affixing Regis with an almost incredulous look; he should not have expected anything less from the higher vampire.

 

“What took you so long?”

 

⧫⧫⧫

 

The fighting had subsided some time ago, and Damien was waiting in the front courtyard for the witcher’s return from the main tower; ‘waiting’ was perhaps a liberal phrasing for what could be more accurately described as ‘nervous pacing made to look authoritative’.

He had not seen hide nor hare of Geralt throughout the entire assault on Dun Tynne, and now his men were rambling about the appearance of ‘strange mist’ and ‘vampires’. None of the men were reporting any wounds consistent with the presence of such creatures, but Damien knew - from recent experience - that this was not a total impossibility.

 

It felt like an eternity before Geralt was emerging from the building, with two more figures in tow; a grey-haired fellow with an almost nervous-seeming disposition about him, and a woman that could not possibly be - if her face and confident stride were any accurate indication - any other than Sylvia Anna, Her Grace’s banished sister.

 

Damien breathed out a quick sigh of relief, striding forward and meeting Geralt halfway; they stopped in front of one another, eyes searching one another over quickly for wounds, and their minds and bodies seemingly stumped for how to react to seeing one another again after such a dangerous assault. They both settled for relieved and soft smiles, and a small whispered breath of greeting.

 

Damien breathed, “Hello.”

 

Geralt’s smile was almost lopsided, “Hey.”

 

Damien hardly registered Her Grace’s exchange with Sylvia Anna, noting quickly that they were surrounded by armed guards, and flanked by at least twenty men trained in firing true-shots from crossbows. He was preoccupied with regaining his composure from the stress he had been harbouring for the entirety of the mission, his eyes flicking to glance at Geralt every now and again, noting his almost laboured breath and occasional wincing. He would have devoted more attention to the witcher’s condition - as he desired to - but Her Grace was ordering men to take Sylvia Anna back to the palace, and was rounding on Geralt and his comrade, her temper flaring as she questioned them.

 

Geralt’s responses, explaining that the case had increased again in complexity, and that Sylvia Anna was - of all things - the one responsible for blackmailing the Beast into the murders that had the Duchy scared to death, fanned Her Grace’s anger. Even Geralt’s mentioning of the vampire’s dangerous and terrifying ultimatum did not deter Her Grace’s wrath, and her responses took on an even more cutting tone as she spoke her orders.

 

“You have three days to bring me his head,” she hissed darkly, her authority, her rage, undeniable, “No more secrets, no more helping vampires. I want what I’m paying for - the head of the Beast.”

 

And, with those words, Her Grace had turned on her heel and was striding away, escorted by a large portion of Damien’s ducal guardsmen; the Captain watched her for a moment, before turning back to face Geralt.

 

His eyes widened as he noticed the witcher fussing over something lodged in his side, his breathing stressed and pained; Damien’s gaze fell upon the crossbow bolt in Geralt’s side, and he immediately moved closer, pushing the witcher’s hands away.

 

“No,” he murmured, “Don’t. Not here, that needs proper medical care. If you remove it incorrectly, you’ll do more harm than good.”

 

Geralt looked up at him, seeming suddenly awkward under the Captain’s attention and proximity, “I’ve removed things like this before. You’d be surprised how similar a broken fiend claw or chort fang is to a crossbow bolt.”

 

Damien gave him a slightly amused quirk of his brow, removing a handkerchief from within his armour and pressing it against the edges of the wound, holding it in place around the bolt, “Don’t let your pride get in the way of proper medical attention, Geralt. Let me help you.”

 

Geralt said nothing, instead settling for making a small and shaky sound of affirmation as the Captain examined the wound, glancing toward Regis and narrowing his eyes at the knowing looks the higher vampire was making as he observed the scene before him.

 

Damien stepped back slightly, admiring the makeshift bandage he had managed to affix to the bolt to staunch the bleeding, “That will do for now. We’re going to need to get that bolt out, however. Leaving it in will likely cause an infection, and it may even result in the bolt splintering in the wound.”

 

Geralt gave a small and agonised breath, “Don’t suppose that you know of any medics that would be willing to answer a call at this hour?”

 

Damien smiled at the witcher, gesturing for him to follow him back to the main gate of the compound, “Nonsense. As a Captain, I have plenty of training as a field medic myself. I have tools at my quarters that will make short work of such a wound, and plenty of solutions for preventing infections.”

 

Geralt made a face that was difficult to interpret, before ducking his gaze away for a moment as he responded his affirmative, following the Captain to their mounts stationed at the gates to the now abandoned and smoking Dun Tynne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't judge me, I needed a reason for them to end up at Damien's quarters. It'll all be worthwhile, I promise you! <3


	9. Affection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! A lot has been happening here, with my thesis and family stuff, it has been all go! Anyway, have another chapter and the final part of the lead up to Geralt and Damien finally getting together! <3

A part of Geralt had been hoping that Regis would continue to accompany them on the ride back to the palace; however, at the small and slightly-mumbled request, the higher vampire gave a short chuckle and a knowing smile, and put an arm around Geralt’s shoulders, pulling him close and speaking so only the witcher could hear his words.

 

“Relax, my friend,” he spoke quietly, “I will be waiting back at the necropolis for your eventual return. We’ll continue our search for Dettlaff then.”

 

Geralt furrowed his brow and fixed Regis with an odd look, “Regis, you’re a surgeon. If anyone’s going to get this thing out of my side, it’s you.”

 

Regis returned Geralt’s look, although it was not intended as being quite so quizzical as Geralt’s expression had been, “Damien is a field medic. He knows what he’s doing. You are in perfectly capable hands with him.”

 

Geralt turned to watch as Damien dismissed a few more of the guardsmen who had remained behind to check Dun Tynne for further evidence that could pertain to the wine theft and blackmailing of the Beast, ensuring that the surviving mercenaries that had been arrested were carted off securely. He paused for a long moment, before turning back to Regis, his expression much less quizzical, and more stifled and confused.

 

“And, you’re taking your leave to return to your crypt for rest, right?” Geralt prodded, intent dripping into his words, “It wouldn’t have anything to do with what your little friends have been reporting back to you. Right?”

 

Regis seemed slightly blindsided by Geralt’s comment, obviously having convinced himself of his own subtlety, and that his spying on the witcher had gone completely unnoticed, “How did you - when - how did you notice?”

 

“Regis,” Geralt quirked a brow and gave the higher vampire a smirk, “I’m a witcher. Birds aren’t exactly the quietest creatures as is, let alone your little raven friends.”

 

Regis attempted an accusatory look, but it came across as a disappointed pout crossed with narrowed eyes that barely looked in any way threatening - at least, not to Geralt.

 

“Yes, I’m well aware of how your mutations serve not only as an excuse at your own convenience, but as an opportunity to enunciate another’s mistakes,” the comment had a slightly frustrated edge, but Geralt could easily tell the higher vampire was amused by his comment, “However, do not try to detract attention from the present; you will follow Damien back to his quarters, and meet with me at the cemetery when you are prepared to resume our search for Dettlaff.”

 

Geralt sighed; he knew that Regis would not relent on his decision, and that he would not be able to prevent the vampire from absconding back to the cemetery, leaving him to Damien’s care and his own bizarre and impossible-to-understand feelings. Somehow, the thought of losing Regis’ sagely advice made Geralt feel like he was being thrown into the deeper end of a dark lake.

 

Regis seemed to sense his unease, and Geralt met his gaze as the vampire’s hand found its way to his shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze, “Believe me, Geralt. Things will be fine. Remember what I told you that night at Orianna’s.”

 

Geralt mulled over the higher vampire’s words as he watched him give another of his comforting smiles, before turning and making his way down the dirt path in the direction of the cemetery - undoubtedly, he would walk until he was far from the view of any ducal guardsmen or knights on horses, before shifting into fog and rolling across the landscape faster than any mount could.

 

Geralt sighed, making his way toward Roach, wincing as pulling himself into the saddle jostled his wound.

 

Damien immediately picked up on his distress, giving him a desperately concerned glance, “Are you alright, Geralt? If you want to bind up the wound before making our way to Beauclair, I understand -”

 

Geralt gave a small shake of his head, exhaling a pained breath through his gritted teeth, “No, no. I’ve ridden with worse wounds. Binding it wouldn’t do much anyway.”

 

Damien paused for a moment, his expression worried as his gaze lingered on Geralt; the Captain eventually gave a short nod of affirmation, before spurring his mount forward, with Roach matching speed at his side.

 

⧫⧫⧫

 

If Geralt had known how harsh the ride to Beauclair would be on his injury prior to mounting his horse, he would have certainly consented to Damien doing something - no matter how temporary or ineffective - to ease the pain that the movement of riding caused. By the time they had arrived at Damien’s quarters in the palace, Geralt was clutching his side and breathing as quickly as he could whilst restraining himself to breathing solely through his nose - he did not want to cause any more concern than the Captain was already feeling by panting and groaning in agony.

 

His efforts were no doubt in vain, or so he could assume so by the way Damien continually glanced at him with increasingly distressed concern, his hands occasionally moving as if to help Geralt walk, or comfort him or something - the witcher tried to respond to the glances with a reassuring smile, but he could only assume that it came across as more of a grimace of pain by Damien’s reactions to his facial expression.

 

Damien opened his quarters and guided Geralt inside, toward a large and ornate chair - a reading chair, Geralt would guess, judging by its proximity to a large bookshelf, filled with enough books to rival the library of any Lodge sorceress. He sat stiffly in the chair, wincing slightly before letting out a long sigh as the sharp stinging in his wound faded into a droning ache. He busied himself, tried to take his mind off the pain, by looking around himself, taking in the sight of Damien’s quarters as the Captain moved about, obviously gathering supplies for treating the witcher’s wound.

 

The room was as one would anticipate for someone of Damien’s rank and title; a room as elegant and well-equipped as any high ranking noble, but with extra amenities that marked them as someone considered deserving of the materialistic and financial favour of someone like the Duchess. Much of the furniture seemed to be of exotic craftsmanship from a range of foreign and far-off places, and the rug that spanned the majority of the main floor looked like it had been imported from somewhere like Zerrikania. The books were almost certainly things that only the richest of nobles could afford, and Geralt wondered just how many in those shelves were gifts from rich donors.

 

Geralt watched as Damien moved closer, placing a small chest on the reading table beside the witcher’s seat, opening it to reveal bandages and jars filled with salves and balms; a cursory sniff brought a very herbal, very medicinal scent to Geralt’s senses. The Captain pulled a shorter chair up to the side of Geralt where the wound ached and throbbed around the bolt lodged in it, his hands already unspooling a length of woven bandage.

 

“You’ll have to remove your armour and clothing,” Damien murmured, reaching for one of the jars and pulling the stopper from the top, “I apologise if that makes you uncomfortable, but it’s the only way for me to -”

 

Geralt gave a short chuckle, hands moving to begin unbuckling his armour, his movements ginger about his wound, “I understand. Not uncomfortable at all.”

 

It took a moment for the witcher to remove his armour, placing it beside his chair, his hands immediately moving to feel at the sides of his wounds - an old reflex, not an entirely helpful one, picked up from years of gaining monster bites and scratches in the darkness, fingers detecting size and shape and severity in minimal visibility through touch.

 

Damien’s hand moved to gently - surprisingly gently - brush Geralt’s aside, “No, you’ll risk making it worse. Just trust me, Geralt, I know what I’m doing. I’ll try to have it removed as quickly as possible.”

 

Geralt nodded sheepishly, offering Damien a small smile, “Sorry. Old habit.”

 

“It is not at all difficult to believe that you would form such a thing as a habit,” Damien chuckled as he continued to dab a swatch of cotton bandage with one of the numerous herbal salves, “It would not be difficult for such a thing to become a habit with the number of wounds you have clearly sustained during your time as a witcher.”

 

Geralt felt his face heat up as he noticed Damien’s eyes scanning over his rather vast collection of scars, and he suddenly felt very exposed - admittedly, the Captain’s attention, much to his own surprise, was not unwelcome or even uncomfortable. However, he could not deny that he was somewhat concerned about how the Captain would react to the sight of his litany of scars - some of them likely deviating from the sort of scars Damien would have previously encountered in his line of work, such as the healed bite marks with their pronounced teeth-marks from beastly fangs, and the extended and slightly ragged scratches that could never be attributed to ordinary blades or human fingernails.

 

However, Damien’s reaction was not as Geralt expected; the Captain did not seem appalled or repelled by the witcher’s scars, his eyes travelling over them almost appreciatively, as if he were looking over the brush strokes of a fine portrait. Geralt was used to having folks stare rudely at the scar across his eye, or avert their gazes entirely in an equally hurtful and impolite manner; to Damien, however, Geralt’s more intimate scars seemed to be more of appreciative fascination, as opposed to another feature to be gawked at.

 

A moment passed between them, Geralt silently enjoying the Captain’s reaction to his scars and basking in the brief and welcome attention, the sort he was not particularly used to. Damien eventually noticed the witcher calmly watching him, and shook his head, returning his attention to the bandage he had prepared.

 

“My apologies,” he spoke quickly, “I didn’t mean to stare or make you uncomfortable.”

 

Geralt gave a short chuckle, watching as the Captain moved to place the jar of salve back into the small chest, “Like I said before. Not uncomfortable at all.”

 

Damien shifted slightly closer on his own chair, reaching toward Geralt’s wound, and murmuring a small warning before he began removing the bolt, utilising the treated bandage to mop up the blood and clean the wound, pulling the bolt slowly as he continued to keep the wound as clean as possible.

 

Mutations or not, a wound was still painful to even a witcher, and Geralt had to grit his teeth as Damien finished wiping away the excess blood, and began suturing it closed with a small and sterilised needle and thread. The pain of the needle was minimal, but the poke of the sharp end through injured flesh was enough to send jolts of pain through Geralt’s side that had him wincing and furrowing his brow, counting each stitch in the hopes it would be the final one.

 

Damien pulled the final stitch tight and tied it off, cutting the needle and thread away and tucking it into the chest, retrieving a roll of cotton bandages. He gave Geralt another reassuring smile before he began carefully winding the bandages around his midsection, ensuring that the wound was tightly wrapped, and the bandages were held in place by their position around his abdomen and over the shoulder opposite to the puncture site.

 

Geralt suddenly became acutely aware of just how close Damien was to him as the Captain finished tying off the bandages; he swallowed, trying to keep his eyes on anything but the Captain, his gaze flicking awkwardly to various points around the room - glancing from the bookshelf to the fancy imported rug and then back to the books. His eyes continually flicked back to Damien, despite his efforts to keep his attention fixed elsewhere, unable to keep his eyes away from Damien’s look of concentration as he tended to the witcher’s wound and ensured the bandages were tightly secured in place, and that the wound was properly closed and sealed beneath.

 

Geralt could not deny that the look of complete focus on Damien’s face was surprisingly alluring; the room around him seemed to fade away, his attention remaining on the Captain as everything else seemed bizarrely inconsequential and distant - all efforts to distract himself from staring at Damien were forgone as he watched the Captain nod to himself and finish with the bandages, sitting up slightly and fixing his eyes upon Geralt’s.

 

As soon as their gazes met, the distance between them felt torn between so very, very close, and impossibly distant; Damien could not have been more than a few inches from Geralt’s face. Any other time, such intense eye contact would have the witcher recoiling and trying to gain distance between himself and the individual meeting his intense stare.

 

But, not with Damien. Geralt felt none of those feelings toward the Captain - the only thing that crossed his mind at their exchange of eye contact was that it was torturously distant, something that he could not entirely explain. He had not felt this way for such a long time, the need to be closer to someone, the need to exchange this and more with another, to become familiar enough with another that such gazes allowed them to read one another, understand one another.

 

Perhaps it was subconscious, driven by underlying thought, want that even he did not consciously understand; or, perhaps, he was consciously making the decision but had not even realised what part of himself he was listening to - whatever part of him that was screaming at him to make the first move, and break through whatever had stopped them during their exchange overlooking the vineyards during Damien’s tour of the city.

 

Geralt found himself closing the meagre distance between them, his lips meeting Damien’s in the clumsy sort of kiss, the somewhat graceless nature of it attributable to the Captain’s utter surprise at the sudden movement. After a moment, though, Geralt felt relief flooding through him as Damien eventually responded, pushing back into the kiss as if some invisible - or subconscious - barrier had been broken down, all of his hesitation and surprise suddenly gone in an instant. Geralt’s hands found Damien’s shoulders as he deepened the kiss, the corner of his mouth quirking up as the Captain’s hands found his hips, Damien responding just as passionately as the witcher.

 

Perhaps it was the relief that they were both alive after the incident at Dun Tynne; perhaps it was the memories of what had almost occurred as they looked out over the vineyards before the siege, before they had been interrupted. Or, perhaps it was something that had been building over the length of Geralt’s stay in Beauclair, something that began when Damien began to fully appreciate the truer nature of the witcher as being utterly unlike that which he expected; perhaps it was something attributable utterly to the unexpected.

 

Whatever had led to this moment, Geralt was immensely thankful for it; and, he could not help but imagine that Damien was equally appreciative as the Captain guided him through his quarters and towards his bed, his own armour clattering to the floor as they moved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm such a tease, but I'm also extremely awkward at writing romance scenes so please bear with me. <3 Hope the chapter was worth the wait! :D


	10. Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT AND GENERAL DISARRAY; I've been struggling at the labs for the last couple of weeks and it's led to a lot of sleep deprivation and stress. Anyway, here's a nice little update leading into Geralt and Damien training the guardsmen against vampire attacks. Sorry for no smut, but I'm very very bad at writing it, so expect lots of fade-to-blacks and intense fluff until i get better at writing it. <3 Thank you for your patience and lovely comments! <3

“Well, that was certainly unexpected.”

 

Damien chuckled, stretching his arms above his head, before dropping them to drape around Geralt’s shoulder and pull him closer, smiling as the witcher shuffled closer, resting his head against the Captain’s shoulder.

 

“Yet, not unwanted, I hope?” Damien responded playfully, his hand idly tracing a scar that ran along Geralt’s bicep - one ragged at the edges, and clearly made by something with a lot of teeth and claws, “I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds by lunging at you like that.”

 

Geralt’s laugh was more than a chuckle, coming out in an almost breathy huff, “Hey, I lunged at you first. Don’t try and claim that you’re the one who made the first move.”

 

Damien smiled; it was not so long ago that the thought of Geralt being playful would have felt utterly ludicrous to the Captain, let alone the prospect of him being so emotionally open to him. Damien certainly would not have anticipated any such kind of behaviour occurring in the form of pillow talk after they had spent the previous few hours making the bed and room even more hot and stifling than any amount of Toussaint humidity could. He would never anticipated to be the sort to experience the unusual situation of bedding a witcher, like some of the authors of the tomes he had researched prior to Geralt’s arrival in Beauclair had claimed to, and cited as their means of understanding and knowing the ways of witchers.

 

And, yet, here they were, and Damien could not have been happier to be here with his slightly unorthodox companion.

 

They had taken a moment - a long moment - to breathe, merely enjoying one another’s presence, enjoying the pleasant distraction from the pressing matter of tracking down the Beast of Beauclair, and the lingering problem of finding some sort of justice between the Duchess and her estranged sister. Although always so invested in his work, his service to the Duchy, to Her Grace, Damien found himself trying his hardest to shut out such thoughts, silently wishing this moment did not have to come to an end when morning finally dawned.

 

“Damien.”

 

The sound of Geralt addressing him so familiarly never failed to get his attention. He looked down at the witcher pressed against his side and hummed questioningly for him to finish whatever thought he was leading into.

 

“You seem distracted,” the witcher murmured, shifting to get more comfortable, “Something wrong?”

 

Damien suddenly felt acutely aware of the fact that Geralt - the superhuman witcher who was capable of detecting the slightest change in his heartbeat and breathing and perspiration - was currently resting his head against his chest, and likely picked up on some subtle change that indicated the whirring of Damien’s mental gears.

 

“Nothing, nothing at all,” Damien spoke perhaps a little too quickly, slightly flustered that Geralt had picked up on his bizarrely lovelorn daydreaming so easily, “I was just thinking about everything that has happened since Dun Tynne. Everything affecting the Duchy.”

 

Geralt shifted again, this time moving to prop himself up on an elbow beside the Captain, “Perhaps you just need a distraction, to take your mind off everything. We never did finish our talk at the vineyards before the siege.”

 

Damien smiled at him, “No. No, we didn’t.”

 

They spent a good amount of time speaking more on the topics that had arisen prior to the siege; Geralt spoke more of his time growing up at Kaer Morhen, told Damien of his very first contract, and how proud of himself he had been upon receiving his first payment for a monster hunt. Damien watched the witcher’s facial expressions as he spoke, enjoying how he seemed to almost relive the experiences with his own reactions as he described the events of his past.

 

Every change in his facial expression felt so much more special now that Damien finally comprehended where they stood with one another.

 

Geralt was rounding off a story about how he was in a life or death fight with a gang of bandits that had ambushed him on the Path in an attempt to rob him, and he spoke of utilising one of his ‘witcher signs’ to fight them off. Damien recalled being intrigued by Geralt’s earlier mention of these signs as they stood above the vineyard. Information in the books describing and analysing witchers was scant regarding these signs, and Damien found his curiosity piquing.

 

“These signs,” he spoke in an intrigued manner, “What are they exactly?”

 

Geralt listed off the signs in quick succession, with the speech of someone who had them memorised through repetition and necessity, “Aard, Yrden, Axii, Igni, Quen, Somne and Heliotrop.”

 

Damien blinked in astonishment at how many oddly named signs there were, before eagerly asking for Geralt to go on to explain what each sign did, the Captain listening to him speak in an enraptured silence, fascinated that anyone besides a sorceress or witch or some otherworldly post-Conjunction creature could be capable of casting such unusual magic. The signs were capable of a number of incredible feats, ranging from blasting an individual back with a concussive wave, to altering their thoughts and their mind to render them harmless - or a slave to the caster’s whim.

 

“Then, of course, there’s igni,” Geralt rounded off his explanation with this particular sign, glancing around the room for a moment, before his attention fell on the unlit candle on Damien’s nightstand, “Perhaps it’ll be better if I demonstrated this one.”

 

Damien watched as the witcher picked up the candle, holding it carefully in front of him before bringing up his free hand to hover over the unlit wick; there was a short pause, before Geralt flexed his fingers and a small accumulation of light and heat all but spawned in the space between his fingers, hitting the wick and lighting the candle in a small influx of flames that had Damien jumping slightly in a mixture of surprise and astonishment.

 

“In a fight, it’s more suited for creating a firewall, or creating a stream of flames,” Geralt smiled, carefully placing the now-lit candle back on the nightstand and smiling as Damien gave the candle another linger and almost disbelieving look, “Lighting candles and fireplaces is half convenience, half parlour trick.”

 

Damien blinked, his gaze falling back on the witcher, who was settling down against the pillows once more, “Impressive nonetheless. I can only imagine it’d be something formidable in a battle.”

 

Geralt nodded, “They’ve all saved my life at some point or another. Particularly Axii and Quen. Shockwaves and flames are good in offensive situations, but when you’re backed into a corner or have the lower hand in a fight, playing defensively using mind control or a shield can change the course of a fight quickly.”

 

“I can only imagine,” Damien rounded his affirmation off with another chuckle, “They would be something immensely helpful in a fight against a group of vampires.”

 

Geralt gave a half nod-half shrug, shifting slightly closer, “There are plenty of other techniques for fighting vampires that can help those who can’t wield magic. Some of them were designed by witchers, but you don’t need to be a witcher to perform them.”

 

“Perhaps you could demonstrate these methods to my men,” Damien thought back to the fight against the small band of vampires in the woods that night, the night that Geralt had come to their aid just as they risked grievous injury or casualty; Damien knew that Geralt could impart some invaluable knowledge upon his guardsmen that would allow for them to be prepared in the case of a repeat attack.

 

Geralt gave a nod, settling back against Damien’s shoulder, “Of course. I’d be happy to give your men some training in combatting vampires, granted they’d be willing to listen to methods designed by witchers.”

Damien smiled, “Very well, our vampire attack training starts tomorrow. I do hope you’re prepared to spare time for a few lessons over the coming days. I have a feeling some of my guardsmen will need the time and practice.”

 

Geralt smirked, leaning up to press his lips against Damien’s chin, “Count on it.”

**Author's Note:**

> HAAAAAAAAAAAA, so the intent is that Damien is kind of romantically ignorant. This will be a bit better fleshed out in future chapters.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading if yall made it this far. <3


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